GIFT   OF 
A.    F.    Morrison 


A  WOMAN'S   POEMS. 


A  WOMAN'S  POEMS. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  Co. 
1871 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

MRS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT, 
In  the  office  of' the/Librarian  of  Congress,  'at  Washington,  D.  (J. 

'         ;OF 


PRESS    OF    K.   W.   CARROLL    &   CO., 
CINCINNATI,  O. 


IS"?) 

i  i 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  MY  NEAREST  NEIGHBOR, iii 

The  Fancy  Ball, 1 

After  Wings, .         .         3 

Her  Metaphors, 4 

The  Little  Stockings. 6 

Lion  or  Lamb, 8 

Twelve  Hours  Apart, 9 

To-Day,       ........'  .11 

My  Babes  in  the  Wood,      . 13 

My  Ghost, 15 

Shapes  of  a  Soul, 18 

Death  before  Death,    .  20 

Meeting  a  Mirror, 23 

The  Brother's  Hand, •  .25 

The  Highest  Mountain,       .         . 45 

Offers  for  the  Child,    .  .         .         .         .         .         .         .46 

Her  Last  Gift,     . .48 

A  Sister  of  Mercy, .50 

Earth  in  Heaven,         .........       52 

Last  Words,         .         . -54 

My  Artist, 56 

In  the  Graveyard,       .....,.,.       59 

The  End  of  the  Rainbow, 62 

Two  Blush-Roses, .         .64 

Of  a  Parting, 66 


M107310 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Child's  First  Sight  of  Snow, 68 

A  Lily  of  the  Nile,      .                                   69 

A  Disenchantment, 71 

The  Flowers  in  the  Ground,        ...         v      ...  73 

Questions  of  the  Hour, 74 

Gaslight  and  Starlight, .76 

A  Dream's  Awakening, 78 

Talk  about  Ghosts, 79 

A  Year— MDCCCLX, 81 

On  a  Wedding  Day, 88 

The  Dove  and  the  Angel, 90 

Her  Talk  with  a  Redbird, 92 

My  Wedding  Ring, 93 

A  Falling  Star, 94 

Playing  Beggars, 96 

Stone  for  a  Statue, 99 

A  Bird's  Wing  and  a  Soul's, 100 

Fallen  Angels, 102 

To  Marian  Asleep, 103 

A  President  at  Home, 105 

An  Eagle's  Plume  from  Palestine, 107 

A  Chain  from  Venice,          ........  109 

A  Walk  to  My  Own  Grave, 110 

Paris, 113 

An  After  Poem, .         .114 

WITH  DISTANT  ECHOES. 

Hearing  the  Battle,     .         .         .         .        .        .         .         .         -117 

The  Christmas  Tree  Out-of-Doore, 119 

A  Night  and  Morning,        ........  121 

Army  of  Occupation, .123 

April  at  Washington. 125 

to 127 


MY  NEAREST  NEIGHBOR. 


LOVED  AS  MYSELF— AND  MOKE  ! 

THIS  BOOK  IS  TOUES,  NOT  MINE,  TO  GIVE  OE  TAKE. 
YOTTK  HAND,  NOT  MINE,  HAS  SENT  IT  FEOM  YOUR  DOOR. 

MY  HEAET  GOES  WITH  IT— ONLY  FOE  YOUE  SAKE. 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


A  WOMAN'S   POEMS. 


THE  FANCY  BALL. 

As  Morning  you  'd  have  me  rise 

On  that  shining  world  of  art; 
You  forget :  I  have  too  much  dark  in  my  eyes — 

And  too  much  dark  in  my  heart. 

' '  Then  go  as  the  Night — in  June  : 

Pass,  dreamily,  by  the  crowd, 
With  jewels  to  mock  the  stars  and  the  moon, 

And  shadowy  robes  like  cloud. 

"Or  as  Spring,  with  a  spray  in  your  hair 

Of  blossoms  as  yet  unblown ; 
It  will  suit  you  well,  for  our  youth  should  wear 

The  bloom  in  the  bud  alone. 


TKE    FAITCY    BALL. 

"  Or  drift  from  the  outer  gloom 

With  the  soft  white  silence  of  Snow :" 

I  should  melt  myself  with  the  warm,  close  room- 
Or  my  own  life's  burning.     No. 

"Then  fly  through  the  glitter  and  mirth 

As  a  Bird  of  Paradise :" 
Nay,  the  waters  I  drink  have  touch'd  the  earth 

[  breathe  no  summer  of  spice. 

"Then "     Hush:  if  I  go  at  all, 

(It  will  make  them  stare  and  shrink, 

It  will  look  so  strange  at  a  Fancy  Ball,) 
I  will  go  as Myself,  I  think ! 

2 


AFTER  WINGS. 


THIS  was  your  butterfly,  you  see. 

His  fine  wings  made  him  vain  ? 
The  caterpillars  crawl,  but  he 

Pass'd  them  in  rich  disdain? — 
My  pretty  boy  says,  "Let  him  be 

Only  a  worm  again  ?" 


Oh,  child,  when  things  have  learn'd  to  wear 
Wings  once,  they  must  be  fain 

To  keep  them  always  high  and  fair. 
Think  of  the  creeping  pain 

Which  even  a  butterfly  must  bear 
To  be  a  worm  again ! 

3 


HER  METAPHORS. 

A  FAIRY  dream  that  stole, 
With  evanescent  light, 

Across  thy  waken'd  soul, 
One  early  Autumn  night — 

Am  I  not  this  to  thee? 


A  lone  and  languid  rose 

That  in  thy  care  might  bloom, 

But  on  the  distance  throws, 
Vainly,  its  vague  perfume — 
Am  I  not  this  to  thee  ? 


A  faint  and  trembling  star 
That  drew  thine  eyes  awhile, 

Still  shining  on  afar, 
Deserted  by  thy  smile — 

Am  I  not  this  to  thee  ? 

4 


HER    METAPHORS. 


A  pearl  cast  at  thy  feet 
And  worn  by  tliee  an  hour, 

Then  left  where  fierce  waves  beat, 
The  plaything  of  their  power- 
Am  I  not  this  to  thee? 


A  half-remember'd  strain, 

That  once  could  charm  thine  ear, 
Whose  music  thou  again 

Wilt  sometimes  sigh  to  hear — 
Am  I  not  this  to  thee  ? 

5 


THE  LITTLE   STOCKINGS. 

(OX  CHRISTMAS  EVE.) 

HE  will  see  sweet  Stockings,  cunning  and  new, 
Warm  in  scarlet,  and  dainty  in  white — 

Stockings  that  never  have  crept  in  a  shoe — 
Waiting  his  morning's  enchanted  light. 

And  other  glad  Stockings,  that  he  should  know — 
Grown  larger,  perhaps,  than  they  were  last  year ! — 

In  many  a  pretty,  half-sleepy  row 

They  wonder,  no  doubt,  if  he  is  near! 

This  Saint  of  the  children,  who  loves  them  so, 

Fairily  filling  each  color'd  space, 
Will  touch  clear  dreams  with  his  kiss — and  go 

With  tears,  I  think,  in  his  tender  face. 

Ah,  spite  of  his  furs,  he  will  shiver,  I  fear, 

At  the  thought  of  some  Stockings,  bright  and  small, 

Whose  curious  looks  are  no  longer  here, 
Awake  for  him,  by  the  lonesome  wall ! 

6 


THE    LITTLE    STOCKINGS. 

Oh,  you  whose  little  hands  reach  no  more 

Toward  his  gray,  kind  beard  in  their  dimpled  play, 

Whose  little  feet  pass'd  through  the  great,  dim  Door, 
With  never  a  step  nor  a  sound,  away : 

Have  you  found  Another,  who  lights  with  love 
His  Birthday  Tree  for  your  charmed  eyes  ? 

Do  you  see  in  its  branches  the  snow-white  Dove  ? 
Is  it  fair  with  the  flowering  fruit  of  the  skies  ? 


LION    OR    LAMB? 

WHICH  of  the  Two  shall  be  victor  at  last, 
After  this  desperate  battle  is  done? 

Temper  the  wind,  for  the  shorn  strength  fails  fast. 
Look  how  the  yellow  Life  shakes  with  the  sun 

It  has  fed  on  afar  in  wastes  of  its  own ! 
Then  the  cruel  wild  glitter  of  sand 
Looks  hot  in  its  eye !     Shall  I  stand, 

And  watch  them,  and  leave  them  alone? 

Let  them  fight  on,  as  they  will  and  they  must — 

Yet  somehow  the  one  is  so  pretty  and  white  ! 
Say,  dainty  wool,  must  the  blood  and  the  dust 

Hide  your  soft  snowiness  all  from  my  sight  ? 
Ah — wait  ?     I  have  waited  so  long 

The  roar  of  the  desert,  it  dies ; 

A  timid  bleat  goes  to  the  skies : 
The  Lamb  of  the  Two  is  the  strong ! 

8 


TWELVE    HOUKS  APART. 

HE  loved  me.     But  he  loved,  likewise, 
This  morning's  world  in  bloom  and  wing 

Ah,  does  he  love  the  world  that  lies 

In  dampness,  whispering  shadowy  thing,*, 
Under  this  little  band  of  moon? 

He  loves  me?  Will  he  fail  to  see 

A  phantom  hand  has  touch'd  my  hair 

(And  waver'd,  withering,  over  me) 
To  leave  a  subtle  grayness  there, 
Below  the  outer  shine  of  June  ? 

He  loves  me?     Would  he  call  it  fair, 
The  flush'd  half-flower  he  left  me,  say? 

For  it  has  pass'd  beneath  the  glare 
And  from  my  bosom  drops  away, 
Shaken  into  the  grass  with  pain  ? 


TWELVE    HOURS    APART. 

He  loves  me?     Well,  I  do  not  know. 

A  song  in  plumage  cross'd   the  hill 
At  sunrise  when  I  felt  him  go — 

And  song  and  plumage  now  are  still. 
He  could  not  praise  the  bird  again. 

He  loves  me?     VaiPd  in  mist  I  stand, 
My  veins  less  high  with  life  than  when 

To-day's  thin  dew  was  in  the  land, 
Vaguely  less  beautiful  than  then — 
Myself  a  dimness  with  the  dim. 

He  loves  me?     I  am  faint  with  fear. 

He  never  saw  me  quite  so  old  ; 
I  never  met  him  quite  so  near 

My  grave,  nor  quite  so  pale  and  cold : 

Nor  quite  so  sweet,  he  says,  to  him ! 

10 


TO-DAY. 

AH,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  can  not  love  you  while  you  stay. 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away, 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday! 

Let  empty  flower-dust  at  my  feet 
Remind  me  of  the  buds  you  wear ; 

Let  the  bird's  quiet  show  how  sweet 
The  far-off  singing  made  the  air ; 
And  let  your  dew  through  frost  look  fair. 

In  mourning  you  I  shall  rejoice. 
Go :  for  the  bitter  word  may  be 

A  music — in  the  vanish'd  voice ; 
And  on  the  dead  face  I  may  see 
How  bright  its  frown  has  been  to  me. 


TO-DAY. 

Then  in  the  haunted  grass  I  '11  sit, 
Half  tearful  in  your  wither' d  place, 

And  watch  your  lovely  shadow  flit 
Across  To-morrow's  sunny  face, 
And  vex  her  with  your  perfect  grace. 

So,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  weary  of  you  while  you  stay. 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away, 

And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday ! 
12 


MY   BABES  IN  THE   WOOD. 

I  KNOW  a  story,  fairer,  dimmer,  sadder, 
Than  any  story  painted  in  your  books. 

You  are  so  glad  ?     It  will  not  make  you  gladder ; 
Yet  listen,  with  your  pretty  restless  looks. 

"Is  it  a  Fairy  Story?"     Well,  half  fairy— 
At  least  it  dates  far  back  as  fairies  do, 

And  seems  to  me  as  beautiful  and  airy; 
Yet  half,  perhaps  the  fairy  half,  is  true. 

You  had  a  baby  sister  and  a  brother, 

(Two  very  dainty  people,  rosily  white, 
Each  sweeter  than  all  things  except  the  other !) 

Older  yet  younger — gone  from  human  sight ! 

And  I,  who  loved  them,  and  shall  love  them  ever, 
And  think  with  yearning  tears  how  each  light  hand 

Crept  toward  bright  bloom  or  berries — I  shall  never 
Know  how  I  lost  them.     Do  you  understand  ? 

13 


MY    BABES   IN    THE    WOOD. 

* 

Poor  slightly  golden  heads!     I  think  I  miss'd  them 
First,  in  some  dreamy,  piteous,  doubtful  way; 

But  when  and  where  with  lingering  lips  I  kiss'd  them, 
My  gradual  parting,  I  can  never  say. 

Sometimes  I  fancy  that  they  may  have  perish'd 
In  shadowy  quiet  of  wet  rocks  and  moss, 

Near  paths  whose  very  pebbles  I  have  cherish'd, 
For  their  small  sakes,  since  my  most  lovely  loss. 

I  fancy,  too,  that  they  were  softly  cover'd 
By  robins,  out  of  apple-flowers  they  knew, 

Whose  nursing  wings  in  far  home  sunshine  hover'd, 
Before  the  timid  world  had  dropp'd  the  dew. 

Their  names  were — what  yours  are !    At  this  you  wonder. 

Their  pictures  are — your  own,  as  you  have  seen  ; 
And  my  bird-buried  darlings,  hidden  under 

Lost  leaves — why,  it  is  your  dead  selves  1  mean ! 

14 


MY  GHOST. 

A    STORY   TOLD   TO    MY   LITTLE    COUSIN   KATE. 

YES,  Katie,  I  think  you  are  very  sweet, 

Now  that  the  tangles  are  out  of  your  hair, 
And  you  sing  as  well  as  the  birds  you  meet, 

That  are  playing,  like  you,  in  the  blossoms  there. 
But  now  you  are  coming  to  kiss  me,  you  say : 

Well,  what  is  it  for  ?     Shall  I  tie  your  shoe, 
Or  loop  your  sleeve  in  a  prettier  way  ? 

"  Do  I  know  about  ghosts  ?"     Indeed  I  do. 

"Have   I   seen   one?"      Yes:   last   evening,   you 
know, 

We  were  taking  a  walk  that  you  had  to  miss, 
(I  think  you  were  naughty  and  cried  to  go, 

But,  surely,  you'll  stay  at  home  after  this  !) 
And,  away  in  the  twilight  lonesomely 

("  What  is  the  twilight  ?"     It's— getting  late  ! ) 
I  was  thinking  of  things  that  were  sad  to  me — 

There,  hush!    you  know  nothing  about  them, 
Kate. 

15 


MY    GHOST. 

Well,  we  had  to  go  through  the  rocky  lane, 

Close  to  that  bridge  where  the  water  roars, 
By  a  still,  red  house,  where  the  dark  and  rain 

Go  in  when  they  will  at  the  open  doors ; 
And  the  moon,  that  had  just  waked  up,  look'd  through 

The  broken  old  windows  and  seem'd  afraid, 
And  the  wild  bats  flew  and  the  thistles  grew 

Where  once  in  the  roses  the  children  play'd. 

Just  across  the  road  by  the  cherry-trees 

Some  fallen  white  stones  had  been  lying  so  long, 
Half  hid  in  the  grass,  and  under  these 

There  were  people  dead.  I  could  hear  the  song 
Of  a  very  sleepy  dove,  as  I  pass'd 

The  graveyard  near,  and  the  cricket  that  cried  ; 
And  I  look'd  (ah !  the  Ghost  is  coming  at  last !) 

And  something  was  walking  at  my  side. 

It  seem'd  to  be  wrapp'd  in  a  great  dark  shawl, 

(For  the  night  was  a  little  cold,  you  know.) 
It  would  not  speak.     It  was  black  and  tall ; 

And  it  w^alk'd  so  proudly  and  very  slow. 
Then  it  mock'd  me — every  thing  I  could  do  : 

Now  it  caught  at  the  lightning-flies  like  me ; 
Now  it  stopp'd  where  the  elder-blossoms  grew  ; 

Now  it  tore  the  thorns  from  a  gray  bent  tree. 

16 


MY    GHOST. 


Still  it  follow'd  me  under  the  yellow  moon, 

Looking  back  to  the  graveyard  now  and  then, 
Where  the  winds  were  playing  the  night  a  tune — 

But,  Kate,  a  Ghost  does  n't  care  for  men, 
And  your  papa  couldn't  have  done  it  harm ! 

Ah,  dark-eyed  darling,  what  is  it  you  see  ? 
There,  you  needn't  hide  in  your  dimpled  arm — 

It  was  only  my  Shadow  that  walk'd  with  me  ! 


SHAPES   OF  A  SOUL. 

WHITE  with  the  starlight  folded  in  its  wings, 
And  nestling  timidly  against  your  love, 

At  this  soft  time  of  hush'd  and  glimmering  things, 
You  call  my  soul  a  dove,  a  snowy  dove. 

If  I  shall  ask  you  in  some  shining  hour, 

When  bees  and  odors  through  the  clear  air  pass, 

You  '11  say  my  soul  buds  as  a  small  flush' d  flower, 
Far  off,  half-hiding,  in  the  old  home-grass. 

Ah,  pretty  names  for  pretty  moods ;  and  you, 
Who  love  me,  such  sweet  shapes  as  these  can  see; 

But,  take  it  from  its  sphere  of  bloom  and  dew, 
And  where  will  then  your  bird  or  blossom  be? 

Could  you  but  see  it,  by  life's  torrid  light, 

Crouch  in  its  sands  and  glare  with  fire-red  wrath, 

My  soul  would  seem  a  tiger,  fierce  and  bright 
Among  the  trembling  passions  in  its  path. 

18 


SHAPES   OF   A   SOUL. 

And,  could  you  sometimes  watch  it  coil  and  slide, 
And  drag  its  colors  through  the  dust  a  while, 

And  hiss  its  poison  under-foot,  and  hide, 

My  soul  would  seem  a  snake Ah,  do  not  smile! 

Yet  fiercer  forms  and  darker  it  can  wear ; 

No  matter,  though,  when  these  are  of  the  Past, 
If  as  a  lamb  in  the  Good  Shepherd's  care 

By  the  still  waters  it  lie  down  at  last. 

19 


DEATH  BEFOKE  DEATH. 

ARE  mine  the  empty  eyes 
That  stare  toward  the  little  new  grave  on  the  beautiful 

burial-hill? 

Was  mine  the  last  wet  kiss  t^at  lies 
Shut  up  in  his  coffin,  kissing  him  still, 
Kissing  him  still? 

Is  mine  the  hollow  room? 
Was  it  not  cruel  to  take  all  the  pretty  small  furniture, 

say? — 

The  fairy  pictures  and  heaps  of  bloom, 
And  music  of  mock-harps — so  far  away, 
So  far  away? 

Is  mine  the  hidden  face 
That  one  night's  sudden   dread  watching  has  thinn'd 

and  faded  so  much  ? — 

Mine  the  lonesome  hands  through  bitter  space, 
Yearning  for  something  they  never  can  touch, 
Never  can  touch? 

20 


DEATH   BEFORE    DEATH. 

Is  mine  the  passionate  pain 
That  will  hearken  the  trembling  wind  and  feel  the  wide 

still  snow, 

And  sob  at  night  with  the  sobbing  rain, 
And  only  feel  that  I  can  not  know, 
I  can  not  know? 

Was  mine  that  lovely  child? 

Did  he  drop  from  my  heart  and  go  where  the  Powers 
of  the  Dust  can  destroy? 

Can  I  see  the  very  way  he  smiled • 

"  Let  God  keep  his  angels"?     Do  I  want  my  boy — 
I  want  my  boy? 

Is  he  gone  from  his  air, 
From  his  sun,  from  his  voice,  his  motion,  his  mother, 

his  world,  and  his  skies, 
From  the  unshorn  light  in  his  sweet  hair, 
From  the  elusion  of  his  butterflies, 
His  butterflies? 

If  not,  why  let  me  go 

Where  another  sorrow  is  watching  a  small,  cold   bed 
alone, 

And  whisper  how  I  have  loved  her  so, 
21 


DEATH   BEFORE    DEATH. 

That  to  save  her  darling  I  gave  my  own, 
I  gave  my  own ! 

Ah !  if  I  learn'd  her  part, 
And  my  dark  fancies  but  play'd  in  despair  like  tragedy 

queens, 

Then  my  only  audience  was  my  heart, 
And  my  tears,  that  were  tears,  were  behind  the  scenes, 
Behind  the  scenes. 

22 


MEETING  A  MIRROR 

BELOVED  of  beautiful  and  eager  eyes, 
It  had  its  honors  from  the  guests  below ; 

But  it  went  somewhat  nearer  to  the  skies 
As  it  grew  old,  you  know. 

Still,  from  the  gilded  splendor  of  the  day 
That  Vanity  sees  shining  in  its  place, 

I  turn'd  with  yearning  for  the  pleased,  slow  way 
It  used  to  hold  my  face. 

Far  up  the  stair  and  shunn'd  of  faded  eyes 
I  found  the  thing  that  I  had  loved  before: 

It  took  my  face,  grew  dead-white  with  surprise. 
Held  it — then  saw  no  more  ! 

Suddenly  blinded  :   for  the  Mirror  shed 

Tears  for  dim  hair,  it  praised  to  suns  gone  by, 

And  One  to  whom  once  of  it  I  gayly  said, 
"My  rival — dear  as  I!" 

23 


MEETING    A   MIRROR. 

Companions,  in  our  time,  of  pleasant  lights, 
I  thought,  and  music  and  rich  foreign  blooms, 

What  shall  we  find  for  those  fair  evening-sights 
In  lonesome  upper  rooms? 

The  misty  Mirror  show'd  a  calm  reproof, 
Receiving  there  a  higher  company, 

In  dust  and  empty  silence  near  the  roof, 
Than  we  were  wont  to  see. 

Its  pride  in  jewel'd  reverence  was  gone, 
And  quiet  tenderness  was  in  its  place, 

That  took  the  sweet  stars,  as  they  glimmer'd  on 
In  chill  clouds,  to  its  grace. 

24 


THE   BROTHER'S   HAND. 


LOST  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  Mexico, 
A  poor  dry  mountain  crouches  in  the  sand. 

About  it,  goldeuly,  the  Summers  go 

And  feed  with  fruit  the  gorgeous-colored  laud, 

Yet  leave  it  starving  on  its  empty  plain, 

Forgotten  almost  by  the  tender  rain, 
With  loneliness  around  it  like  a  band. 

Nor  wing'd  nor  odorous  life  glows  in  the  air, 
That,  dull  and  dying,  toward  it  heavily  creeps, 

Yet  on  its  breast,  among  the  clouds,  how  fair 
A  strange  calm  Image  sleeps  —  and  sleeps  and 
sleeps ! 

It  is  a  Man,  gigantic,  gray  in  stone, 

With  dropping  eyelids,  lying  there  alone 
With  the  old  awful  silence  that  he  keeps. 

25 


THE    BROTHERS    HAND. 

Sharp  Southern  lightnings  on  his  rocky  height 
Against  him  in  their  glittering  fury  fall ; 

The  desert's  dumbness  smites  him  day  and  night ; 
Suns  scorch  him — but  he  does  not  stir  at  all. 

Ages,  like  bubbles,  on  his  slumber  break: — 

But  glimmering  legends  say  he  will  awake, 
And  simple  hearts  are  listening  for  his  call. 

For  once  he  was  that  fabled  king,  they  say, 
Whose  savage  splendor,  wavering  from  the  dark 

Of  long  tradition,  seems  a  dream  to-day, 

Yet  still  the  traveler  sometimes  stops  to  mark 

In  solitary  places,  shining  slow, 

(Ah,  beautiful  belief  in  long  ago!) 

The  faithful  fire  in  many  a  tremulous  spark. 

The  languid  Spaniard  rose  and  sank  again. 

Ardent  and  light-heroic  over  seas 
The  young  fair  Austrian  alien  drifted  then, 

And  made  him  a  mock  throne  and  tried  to  please 
Himself  with  playing — till  his  play  was  doom'd 
And  through  the  world  his  echoing  death-shot  boom'd. 

The  sleeping  monarch  hears  not  sounds  like  these. 

He  waits.     And  waiting  bosoms  know,  at  last 

Those  faithful  fires  they  keep  will  charm  him  down 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

Into  the  jewel'd  glory  of  his  Past, 

To  beat  the  dust  from  off  his  buried  crown, 
And  trail  the  brightness  of  his  risen  name 
Across  the  risen  kingdom  he  shall  claim, 

Though  at  his  coming  newer  kings  may  frown. 

So  there  are  lives  about  us,  every-where, 
Fruit-fed  by  tropic  suns,  yet  poison  creeps 

Across  one  mountain  held  by  desert  air, 

Whereon    one   Image   sleeps  —  and    sleeps    and 
sleeps ! 

It  is  a  Man,  gigantic,  gray  in  stone, 

With  dropping  eyelids,  lying  there  alone 
With  the  old  awful  silence  that  he  keeps. 

And  if  one  stranger  waste  their  wealth  awhile, 

And  if  another  act  a  tragedy 
And  close  the  last  scene  with  a  desperate  smile  : 

The  sovereign  sleeper  may  not  wake  to  see ; 
The  image  on  the  mountain  may  not  hear 
The  play-king's  death-shot,  though  it  hisses  near, 

Or  cries  afar  for  many  an  echoing  mile. 

He  waits.     And  waiting  bosoms  know  at  last 

The  faithful  fires  they  keep  will  charm  him  down 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

Into  the  jewel'd  glory  of  his  Past, 

To  beat  the  dust  from  off  his  buried  crown, 
And  trail  the  brightness  of  his  risen  name 
Across  the  risen  kingdom  he  shall  claim, 

Though  at  his  coming  newer  kings  may  frown. 


Here,  see  what  I  have  brought  you  from  the  hill — 

A  brier-rose  lingering  late  into  July. 
Oh,  it  may  tell  you,  if  it  can  and  will, 

In  its  small  way,  so  pink  and  timid,  why 
It  waited  after  all  its  mates  wrere  dead, 
And  wore  for  mourning-garments  only  red 

While  its  step-mother  month  was  fierce  and  dry. 

There  is  no  flower  with  look  and  bloom  and  breath, 
I  faintly  fancy,  like  the  faint  brier-rose  ; 

No  flower  so  fair  for  life,  so  sweet  for  death, 
That  in  the  dew  or  in  the  darkness  grows  ; 

No  flower  that  has  so  fairily  heard  and  seen 

What  fairy  things  the  hum  and  honey  mean, 
When  in  the  wind  the  bee  about  it  blows. 

Far  off,  by  black-gray  stone,  in  shatter'd  heaps, 
The  beautiful,  familiar,  sad  home-grace, 


THE   BROTHER  S   HAND. 

Like  love  itself  made  palpable,  it  keeps 

Through  all  the  sorrowful  forsaken  place. 
Nor  can  you  find  the  scented  presence  there, 
On  the  green  ground  or  in  the  pensive  air, 
Of  any  other  of  the  blossoming  race. 

A  very  lovely  woman  loved  to  wear 

Its  cluster  of  blushes  once  upon  her  breast. 

She  brought  it  from  the  woods  and  set  it  where 
She  always  loved  to  be,  herself,  the  best. 

The  very  flowers  we  think  so  frail  outstay 

Our  frailer  selves — and  she  is  gone  away  : 
Away — and,  therefore,  as  we  think,  to  rest. 

On  the  seventh  birthday  of  her  fair  twin-boys, 
She  gave  the  two  a  boat,  as  they  were  one, 

(For  until  then  each  own'd  the  other's  toys ;) 
But  when  they  saw  it  floating  in  the  sun, 

With  sails  of  stained  silk  so  prettily  blown, 

Each  felt  that  he  was  now  himself  alone : 

The  golden  chain  that  bound  them  was  undone. 

"No,  it  is  mine,"  each  to  the  other  said, 

And  one  raised  up  an  angry  arm  and  made 

29 


THE    BROTHER  S   HAND. 

A  quick  wide  wound,  that  look'd  so  strange  and  red 

Each  of  the  other  dimly  felt  afraid. 
Then  a  child-Cain  in  shadowy  terror  stood, 
And,  crying  from  the  ground,  his  brother's  blood 
Rose  from  the  pleasant  shore  where  they  had  play'd. 

That  sharp,  swift  cut  had  cleft  the  two  apart. 

And,  under  his  light,  lovely  hair,  one  wore 
A  strange-shaped  scar.     And  in  the  other's  heart, 

A  heart  that  had  been  very  sweet  before, 
The  snake-like  passions  started  from  their  sleep 
And  over  it  began  to  writhe  and  creep. 

And  so  the  two  were  two  forevermore. 


As  they  grew  older,  he  who  wore  the  scar 
Saw  it  was  like  a  hand — his  brother's  hand, 

It  seem'd,  against  him.     Then  he  went  afar 
With  a  kind  kinsman  to  a  colder  land, 

After  he  heard  the  dust  begin  to  fall 

On  his  young  mother's  coffin.     She  was  all 

He  had  dear.    And  she  was  what  the  shadows  are. 

Blue-eyed  and  stately,  with  a  bright,  brave  scorn 

Of  wrong,  he  in  a  calmer  climate  grew, 
so 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

The  other,  tropic-nursed  as  tropic-born, 

Was  fierce  and  swarthy,  and  imperious  too, 
And  restless  as  the  wind  that  bloweth  where 
It  listeth  :   so  he  wander'd  here  and  there. 
And  neither  of  the  other  clearly  knew. 

At  last  there  came  a  heavy  hail  of  lead 

Out  of  the  Northern  sky,  that  Southward  fell. 

The  fields  were  blasted  and  the  men  lay  dead ; 
The  women  ruoan'd ;  and  flying  shapes  of  shell 

Their  ways  from  roof  to  hearth -stone  madly  tore, 

And  open'd  suddenly  the  deserted  door, 
By  the  brier-roses  guarded  once  so  well. 

And  Kuin  glided  up  the  weedy  path, 

And  cross'd  the  moldy  threshold  and  went  in, 

And  sat  there,  with  a  sort  of  a  sullen  wrath, 
Gathering  about  her  all  that  once  had  been 

Dear  and  familiar — save  the  rose,  beside 

The  crumbling  porch,  from  which  she  vainly  tried, 
Tearing  her  hands  with  thorns,  the  flowers  to  win. 

And  once,  when  a  great  ghastly  Sight  close  by 
Was  terrible  in  the  stillness  of  the  moon, 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

A  tall,  slight  soldier,  with  a  smother'd  cry, 

Crept  close  and  broke  some  buds  and  vanish'd  soon  ; 
But,  with  an  almost  human  joy-in-grief, 
The  desolate  rose-tree  thrill'd  from  root  to  leaf 
When  he  said  wearily  :   "  Yes — it  is  I." 

A  whole  year  more,  when  summer  flush' d  again, 
Near  to  the  same  place,  in  the  glitter  of  heat, 

(The  earth  was  red,  the  sky  was  smoky  then,) 
One  lay  in  agony.     Against  his  feet 

A  gash'd  and  gory  flag  from  its  shot  staff 

Flutter'd  and  fell.     There  was  a  cruel  laugh 
From  one  he  had  not  fear'd  again  to  meet ; 

And  a  swift  horse,  deep-black,  with  foaming  mouth 
And  angry  eyes  full  of  wild  wonder,  sprung 

From  its  light  rider — one  who  loved  the  South 
With  his  whole  bitter  soul.     And,  as  he  flung 

The  reins  away  and  stood  in  tears  beside 

The  dying  creature,  gentle,  till  it  died, 

He  show'd  that  he  was  desperate,  dark,  and  young. 

There  was  a  beautiful  and  dreadful  charm 
About  that  youthful  captain,  as  he  stood 


THE   BROTHER  S   HAND. 

Bare-headed,  swordless,  with  his  dead  right  arm 

Loose  at  his  side,  his  left,  whose  strength  was  good, 
About  his  horse — forgetting  his  own  wound, 
Forgetting  all  the  horrible  things  around — 
Calling  it  all  the  tender  names  he  could. 

But  when  his  horse  was  gone,  he  turn'd  away 
And  stamp'd  the  fallen  flag  and  cursed,  and  shook 

The  tall,  slight  soldier  in  whose  blood  it  lay, 
Till  he  half-raised  himself  with  a  dim  look, 

That  made  the  other  loose  his  hateful  hold 

And  tremble  for  an  instant  and  grow  cold, 
As  if  his  thought  some  deadly  trouble  took. 

Then  he  crept  closer  to  the  wounded  youth 
And  lifted,  vaguely,  his  light  lovely  hair, 

And  that  strange  scar — the  brother's  hand,  in  truth 
Against  him — as  in  distant  days  was  there. 

But  now  that  brother  look'd  at  his  distress 

With  a  remorse  that  changed  to  tenderness, 
And  tried  to  raise  him  with  a  timid  care. 

And  watch'd  him  many  a  moaning  after-night, 
Through  which  the  shine  of  spectral  steel  would  go, 

33 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

Through  which  lost  armies  would  rise  up  and  fight 
Lost  battles,  in  the  air — then  waver  slow 

And  haze-like  down,  and  whiten  toward  the  dust, 

Leaving  behind  a  little  blood  and  rust 

And  glory.     Glory?     Why,  I  do  not  know. 

At  last  the  War's  fierce  music  left  the  wind, 
And  they  who  answer'd  to  its  infinite  cries 

With  their  whole  breath  were  gone  where  God  can  find 
Them,  when  He  searches  land  and  sea  and  skies ; 

And  Peace  remain'd — a  beautiful  white  vail, 

Wrought  by  hurt  hands  that  dropp'd  off  thin  and  pale, 
To  hide  the  tears  in  wan,  wet,  restless  eyes. 

And  the  twin-brothers — one  just  from  his  wound — 
Talk'd  of  their  brier-rose  that  would  blossom  yet, 

Talk'd  of  the  river  with  its  far-back  sound, 
Talk'd  of  their  mother  with  a  still  regret, 

And  of  the  fairy  boat  she  gave  them  both  : 

And  then  a  sudden  silence  show'd  them  loath 
To  talk  of — what  they  did  not  quite  forget. 

Just  then  it  happen'd  that  a  pretty  flash 

Of  small  spring-lightning  made  their  window  bright : 

31 


THE    BROTHERS    HAND. 

They  saw  a  fluttering  dress,  a  bright-plaid  sash, 
A  wide  straw-hat,  and  loose  hair  falling  quite 
Half-way  to  eager  feet.     And  so  they  guess'd,  , 
Each  in  a  shy  half-dreaming  way,  the  rest: 

They  thought  the  girl  was  lovely  ?   They  were  right. 

Her  face  in  glimpses  came  to  haunt  the  two, 
Her  voice  was  not  what  common  voices  are ; 

And  soon  the  twin-born  rivals  darkly  knew 

The  old  feud  was  not  dead.     They  saw  the  scar 

Out  of  its  dreary  quiet  rise  again  : 

The  brother's  hand  was  terrible  and  plain 
Against  the  brother,  as  in  years  afar. 

She  loved  them  both.     Which  most?    I  think  that 
she — 

At  least  not  yet — nor  any  other  knew. 
Sometimes  she  walk'd  with  Frederick  by  the  sea, 

Sometimes  she  sung  a  tremulous  song  to  Hugh, 
And  in  a  while,  no  doubt,  began  to  know 
That  he  was  handsome,  or  she  thought  him  so, 

And  that  his  eyes,  perhaps,  were  frankly  blue. 

Out  with  the  darker  brother  once,  a  storm 

Broke  sharply  down  the  twilight.     For  a  time 


THE   BROTHERS    HAND. 

She  clung  to  him.     But,  dry  again  and  warm, 

Among  their  lamps  she  sung  a  sobbing  rhyme 
To  her  piano — and  the  gold-hair'd  man— 
Whose  desolate  music  ended  and  began 
"With  a  far,  subtle,  creeping,  sea-like  chime. 

Then  hush'd  and  went  half-tearful  to  her  room, 
Asking  herself  but  this :      "  Which  shall  I  choose? 

Have  I  the  saddest  need  of  light  or  gloom? 
The  fair  one  surely  is  too  fair  to  lose : 

Without  him  half  the  world  were  empty,  and 

Without  his  brother if  I  understand, 

The  dark  one  is  too  dark  to  quite  refuse. 

"  And  sometimes  if  I  only  glance  at  him, 

His  richer,  fiercer  color  seems  to  me 
To  make  his  stiller  brother  look  as  dim 

As  a  star  looks  by  lightning.     Let  me  fie, 
My  star,  with  the  white  constant  light  you  shed ; 
Fade  out,  my  lightning,  or  else  strike  me  dead. 

For  star  and  lightning  can  but  ill  agree." 

But  something  startled  her  brown  window-bird, 
Nested  beloAV  in  perfume.     As  it  flew 


THE    BROTHERS    HAND. 

She  heard  her  own  name  spoken,  and  she  heard, 
Out  in  the  wind,  one  ask :     "  Which  of  us  two  ? 

It  is  not  well  that  both  of  us  should  stay. 

Let  her  decide."     In  a  bewildered  way, 

Not  knowing  what  she  did,  she  whisper'd,  "  Hugh." 

They  heard  below,  and  Frederick  seem'd  to  laugh 
And  said  :     "  My  boy,  our  paths  again  divide. 

Your  joy  is  great.     If  you  could  give  me  half, 
Enough  were  left.     Good-by.     The  world  is  wide, 

But  all  too  narrow  to  hold  you  and  me. 

Good-by and  shall  we  let  the  Future  be  ? 

Upon  my  faith  you  have  a  charming  bride." 

Next  morning  he  was  gone.     And  then,  somehow, 
Hugh  chanced  in  his  vex'd  dreamy  way  to  throw 

The  yellow  hair  from  his  unquiet  brow, 

And  started  from  a  glass  which  seem'd  to  show 

That  fearful  scar,  looking  more  deadly-white, 

More  like  his  brother's  hand,  too,  since  last  night ; 
Then  scarlet  suddenly  it  seem'd  to  grow. 

She  saw  it :     "  Ah,  you  have  a  scar,"  she  said. 
"  How  strange  it  is — and  how  much  like  a  hand." 


"It  is  a  hand,"  he  answered.     "  See  how  red 

It  threatens  now.     It  cut  the  gentle  band 
Between  us  while  we  yet  were  children."     "  Who  ?" 
"  We  twins  that  called  each  other  Fred  and  Hugh, 
And  play'd  beside  a  river  in  the  sand." 

A  troubled  paleness  fell  upon  her  face. 

She  look'd  at  him  an  instant.      "  If  I  may  ?  " 
She  said,  and,  bird-like,  flutter'd  from  her  place, 

And  flush'd  and  doubted,  and — I  must  not  say 
She  kiss'd  the  scar.     But  I  can  say  it  grew 
Yet  deeper  scarlet,  and  look'd  darker  too, 

And  seem'd  to  move — motioning  her  away. 

The  leaf-bloom  of  the  Fall  was  in  the  woods — 

(The  next  day  was  to  be  their  wedding-day.) 

A  cruel  rain  whirl'd  down  in  pitiless  floods 
And  fretted  the  poor  leaves  that  tried  to  stay 

And  wear  their  splendor  for  a  little  yet. 

The  butterflies  were  faded  out  and  wet, 
Or  else  the  wind  had  blown  them  all  away. 


The  crimson-curtain'd,  pleasant  parlor  glow'd 
With  ferns  and  asters,  and  a  sparkling  fire ; 

38 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

The  next-day's  bride  before  the  mirror  show'd 

The  trailing  mistiness  of  a  bride's  attire. 
And  Hugh  look'd  at  her,  smiling  from  his  dream  : 
He  was  not  happy,  quite,  nor  did  he  seem ; 
Yet  such  sweet  vanity  he  must  admire. 

She  turn'd  to  take  a  letter  that  came  in, 
And  read  it,  and  look'd  at  him  as  she  read, 

And  threw  it  at  his  feet.     "  And  be  your  sin," 

She  hoarsely  whisper'd,  "  upon  your  own  head.  " 

"My  sin?"     "See  there,  and — say  it  is  not  true." 

"  I  will  not.     All  I  say  is  this  :  if  you 
Believe  it — let  to-morrow  not  begin!  " 


Then  there  were  angry  words,  and — "  Let  us  part," 
She  moan'd,  and  reach'd  to  him  her  frightened  hand, 

Thinking  that  he  would  hold  it — to  his  heart — 
And  kiss  her  pain  away,  as  she  had  plann'd : 

For  she  forgave  him — what  he  had  not  done. 

He  answer'd :     "As  you  please. "    And  there  was  none 
To  come  between  them,  or  to  understand. 

What  then  ?     The  thistles  blew  across  the  rain, 
The  gray,  wet  thorn-tree  glimmer'd  once  and  shook. 


THE    BROTHERS   HAND. 

She  thought:     "If  one  should  never  come  again — 

Should  never  come — after  a  bitter  look?" 
And — the  dry  asters  from  the  mantel  fell: 
She  brought  no  fresk  ones  for  the  vases.     Well  ? 
And  silence  settled  in  his  favorite  book. 

She  did  not  thin  her  beauty  with  her  tears, 
But  was  she  tearless  ?    Doubtless  she  was  not. 

But  all  the  outward  gladness  of  her  years 
Was  not  because  of  one  great  grief  forgot. 

Loose  hair  and  laughter,  singing  quick  and  sweet, 

Follow'd  about  the  green  home-grass  her  feet, 
And  quieted  all  wordless,  kindly  fears. 

She  had  no  mother.     But  her  father  said : 
"  You  are  too  hasty,  little  girl,  I  fear. 

Hugh  is  a  manly  fellow ;  as  for  Fred 

The  villian  !     Hugh  will  come  again,  my  dear, 

Before  the  fashion  of  your  dress  shall  change, 

And  we  shall  have  our  wedding."     Was  it  strange? 
The  dress  grew  quaint.    And  Hugh  did  not  appear. 

Once  at  the  sea-side,  in  an  evening  dance, 

She  felt — and,  fluttering,  tried  to  fly  away— 

40 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

The  bird-like  terror  of  the  snake-like  glance. 

Poor,  charmed  little  thing — and  must  it  stay  ? 
"Frederick?"      "Well  — yes."      "Where    is    your 

brother,  Hugh  ?  " 
"Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?     Doubtless  you 

Who  wounded  and  deserted  him,  can  say." 

Hurt  and  bewilder'd,  then  she  brokenly  tried 

The  secret  of  his  letter  to  recall. 
His  letter?     With  feign'd  anger  he  denied 

That  he  had  written — any  thing  at  all ! 
"  What  a  mysterious  piece  of  villiany  ! 
Hugh  never  could  have  thought  so  ill  of  me. 

He  did  not  read  it?"     Then  he  heard  her  fall. 

It  was  the  crowded  room,  and  they  must  go 

Into  the  wide  moonlighted  air  apart. 
Where  was  his  brother,  then?     He  said,  to  know 

He  would  give  up  the  last  throb  of  his  heart  ; 
It  was  two  years  or  more  since  he  had  heard 
Of  Hugh  one  word,  one  single  precious  word: 

Then  broke  into  a  cry  that  made  her  start. 

By  dim  degrees  he  made  himself  grow  dear, 
By  seeming  every  thing  his  brother  was. 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

Whatever  in  the  other  had  been  clear, 

In  him  she  saw — darkly  as  in  a  glass. 
At  last,  in  some  weird,  subtle  way,  he  grew 
The  shadow,  or  the  very  self,  of  Hugh. 

And — well,  the  Summer  withered  from  the  grass. 

What  then?     The  asters  in  the  vases  glow'd 
Again ;  the  parlor  held  the  shining  fire 

Again ;  the  mirror,  three  years  older,  show'd 
The  trailing  mistiness  of  a  bride's  attire ; 

And,  this  time,  Frederick  watch'd  her  from  his  dream, 

He  was  not  happy,  quite,  nor  did  he  seem, 
Yet  such  fair  vanity  he  must  admire. 

Once  more  the  thistles  blew  across  the  rain, 

The  gray,  wet  thorn-tree  glimmer'd  once  and  shook ; 

And  then  she  thought:    "  If  one  should  come  again — 
Or  should  not  come — after  a  bitter  look !  " 

And  then — a  sudden  voice,  familiar-low, 

And  phantom-sweet,  but  heavily-bent  and  slow, 
Read  out  the  silence  of  the  old  favorite  book. 


No  matter.     In  a  wedded  year  or  two, 
In  a  far  Western  land  a  cottage  rose, 


THE    BROTHERS   HAND. 

"With  sand  and  sea  and  sea-shell  shining  through 

Its  many  windows — so  the  story  goes. 
Frederick  was  happy  there.     But  his  late  bride 
Had  backward-yearning  eyes,  and  sometimes  sigh'd 
A  little — as  all  women  may  ?     Who  knows  ? 

Once  bitterly  he  ask'd  :      "What  makes  you  sad?" 
She  answer'd  languidly  :     "Perhaps  the  sea. 

I  sometimes  think  it  surely  has  gone  mad: 
It  foams  and  mutters  till  it  frightens  me. 

Sometimes  when  it  looks  only  golden,  and 

All  things  look  golden  in  this  Golden  Land, 
Blackly  below  it  threatens  things  to  be." 

And,  as  her  childish  words  fail'd  at  her  lip, 
From  silks  and  spices  and  a  foreign  sail, 

She  saw  a  man  drop  from  a  landing  ship 
As  heavily  as  he  had  been  a  bale 

Of  precious  merchant-freight.     With  the  great  light 

Ol'  the  great  evening  smitten,  he  was  bright — 
But  all  who  look'd  at  him  were  dull  and  pale. 

A  life-boat  brought  him  strangling  to  the  coast. 
He  motion'd  them,  in  a  despairing  way, 


THE  BROTHER'S  HAND. 

To  drown  his  body.     For  his  soul  was  lost, 
He  said :  it  shook  him  off  and  plunged  away 

From  the  dark  deck  into  the  gulfs  below, 

For  utter  loneliness.     And  he  must  go 

And  find  it,  somewhere — for  the  Judgment  Day. 

Then  he  died,  smiling. Frederick  and  his  wife 

Look'd  at  him  and  each  other,  and  then  wound 

Their  arms  about  him.     What  was  calm  or  strife 
To  him  or  them  ?    What  had  they  lost  and  found  ? 

What  thing  was  near  ?     What  things  were  gone  afar  ? 

With  tears,  and  without  words,  they  kiss'd  the  scar — 
His  brother's  hand  against  him  all  his  life. 

44 


THE   HIGHEST  MOUNTAIN. 

I  KNOW  of  a  higher  Mountain.     Well  ? 

"  Do  the  flowers  grow  on  it?  "     No,  not  one. 
"  What  is  its  name  ?  "     But  I  can  not  tell. 

"  Where ?  "     Nowhere  under  the  sun  ! 

"  Is  it  under  the  moon,  then  ?  "    No,  the  light 
Has  never  touch'd  it,  and  never  can  ; 

It  is  fashion'd  and  form'd  of  night,  of  night 
Too  dark  for  the  eyes  of  man. 

Yet  I  sometimes  think,  if  my  Faith  had  proved 

As  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  to  me, 
I  could  say  to  this  Mountain  :   "  Be  thou  removed, 

And  be  thou  cast  in  the  sea !" 

45 


OFFERS  FOR   THE  CHILD, 

IN  the  dim  spaces  of  a  dream,  you  see — 
Somewhere,  perhaps,  or  else  not  anywhere, 

(Remember  in  a  dream  what  things  may  be) — 
I  met  a  stranger  with  the  whitest  hair. 

From    his   wide,    wandering    beard   the    snow-flakes 

whirl'd— 

(His  face  when  young,  no  doubt,  was  much  admired :) 
His  name  was  Atlas,  and  he  held  the  world ; 
I  held  a  child — and  both  of  us  were  tired. 

'  A  handsome  boy,"  he  courteously  said  ; 

"He  pleases  my  old  fancy.     What  fine  eyes  !  " 
"Yes,  father,  but  he  wearies  me.     My  head 

Is  aching,  too,  and — listen  how  he  cries  ! " 

"  If  you  would  let  me  take  him  " and  he  spread 

All  his  fair  laces  and  deep  velvets  wide ; 

Then  hid  them  from  my  smile,  and,  in  their  stead, 
Sweet  jewels  and  vague  sums  of  gold  he  tried. 

46 


OFFERS    FOR    THE   CHILD. 

Then  ships,  all  heavy  with  the  scents  and  sounds 
Of  many  a  sea,  the  stains  of  many  a  sun ; 

Then  palaces,  with  empires  for  their  grounds, 
Were  slowly  offer'd  to  me,  one  by  one. 

"  Then  take  the  world  !     It  will  amuse  you.     So, 
Watch  while  I  move  its  wires."     An  instant,  then, 

He  laugh'd.      "Look,  child,   at  this  quick  puppet- 
show  :  " 
I  saw  a  rich  land  dusk  with  marching  men. 

"  This  puppet,  with  the  smile  inscrutable, 
You  call  The  Emperor  ;  these,  Statesmen ;  these — 

No  matter;   this,  who  just  now  plays  the  fool, 
Is  »_         «  Not  our  "—         "  It  is,  madam,  if  you 
please!"* 

"Hush! "     "Take  the  world  and  move  them  as 

you  will !  — 
Give  me  the  boy." 

Then,  shivering  with  affright, 

I  held  the  close  cheek's  dimples  closer  still, 
And  bade  the  old  Peddler — for  I  woke — good-night  1 

*18G— 

47 


HER   LAST   GIFT. 

COME  here.     I  know  while  it  was  May 
My  mouth  was  your  most  precious  rose, 

My  eyes  your  violets,  as  you  say. 

Fair  words,  as  old  as  Love,  are  those. 

I  gave  my  flowers  while  they  were  sweet, 
And  sweetly  you  have  kept  them,  all 

Through  my  slow  Summer's  great  last  heat 
Into  the  lonely  mist  of  Fall. 

Once  more  I  give  them.     Put  them  by, 
Back  in  your  memory's  faded  years — 

Yet  look  at  them,  sometimes ;  and  try, 

Sometimes,  to  kiss  them  through  your  tears. 

T  've  dimly  known,  afraid  to  know, 

That  you  should  have  new  flowers  to  wear ; 

Well,  buds  of  rose  and  violets  blow 
Before  you  in  the  unfolding  air. 

48 


HER   LAST    GIFT. 


So  take  from  other  hands,  I  pray, 
Such  gifts  of  flowers  as  mine  once  gave 

I  go  into  the  dust,  since  they 

Can  only  blossom  from  my  grave. 


A  SISTER  OF  MERCY. 

THERE,  by  the  man  condemn'd  to  die,  she  read 
Christ's  promise  in  the  Crucifixion  tale. 

He  moan'd  a  name 

She  dropp'd  her  cross  and  fled 
From  the  long  shadow  of  the  veil ! 

And,  as  from  her  loosed  convent  coif  she  shook 
Her  youthful  hair's  free  length  of  beauty,  he 

Threw  from  his  face  the  scarr'd  and  sinful  look, 
And  follow'd  her  across  the  sea! 

There,  in  a  Land  of  Distance  vague  with  Spring, 
She,  fair  as  that  one  morning-bud  she  wore, 

Held  him  her  frighten'd  hand  to  take the  ring 

They  found  upon  his  prison  floor! 

"The  ring  was  full  of  poison" — so  they  said  ; 

"A  Sister  of  Mercy  left  it  at  his  side!" 
The  gathering  crowed  must,  know  the  wretch  was  dead, 

Nor  blame  his  jailer  that  he  died. 

50 


A   SISTER   OF    MERCY. 

Perhaps  their  prisoner  gray  and  ghastly  lay; 

Perhaps  the  black-robed  Sister,   worn  and  bow'd, 
Who  pray'd  there  with  that  prisoner  yesterday, 

Was  at  St.  Mary's  in  her  shroud. 

Yet,  in  some  Land  of  Distance  full  of  Spring, 
Whither  their  Youth  of  Love  had  pass'd  before, 

He  gave  her  hand  the  spirit  of  the  ring 
They  found  upon  his  prison  floor! 


EARTH   IN   HEAVEN. 

SOMEWHERE,  my  friend,  in  the  beautiful  skies, 

Awaiting  us  lovely  and  clear, 
We  shall  find  all  beauty  that  leaves  our  eyes 

So  vacant  in  vanishing  here : 
Not  the  human  alone  has  died 
To  go  up  and  be  glorified. 

I  shall  find  my  childhood  playing  there 
In  the  grass  where  it  used  to  play, 

And  see  our  red-birds  brighten  the  air ; 
Again  as  a  girl  I  shall  stray 

On  the  hills  where  the  snow-drops  grew, 

And  hear  the  wild  doves  in  the  dew. 

I  shall  feel  the  darkness  dripping  with  rain 
On  the  old  home-roof;  I  shall  see 

The  white  rose-bud  in  the  yard  again, 
And  the  sweet-brier  climbing  the  tree, 

52 


EARTH    IN    HEAVEN. 

With  its  pretty  young  blooms  that  fell 
Below  to  be  drown'd  in  the  well. 

And  sometimes  a  night,  with  blossoming  hours 

In  a  crescent's  early  gleam, 
Will  let  a  Dream  flutter  out  of  its  flowers, 

With  no  other  name  but  a  Dream, 
To  my  breast,  with  a  timid  grace 
And  wings  o'er  its  blushing  face. 

Ah !  you  smile  in  the  dark ;  you  smile,  and  refuse 
My  faith  in  these  sweet  faded  things ; 

But  I  tell  you  I  know  that  my  soul  would  lose 
One-half  of  the  strength  in  its  wings 

If  these  were  not  keeping  their  light, 

As  the  angels  in  Heaven,  to-night. 

53 


LAST  WORDS. 

OVER   A    LITTLE    BED    AT    NIGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT,  pretty  sleepers  of  mine — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again  : 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine ; 

Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain! 

In  your  small,  dreaming-dresses  of  white, 
With  the  wild-bloom  you  gather'd  to-day 

In  your  quiet  shut  hands,  from  the  light 
And  the  dark  you  will  wander  away. 

Though  no  graves  in  the  bee-haunted  grass, 

And  no  love  in  the  beautiful  sky, 
Shall  take  you  as  yet,  you  will  pass, 

With  this  kiss,  through  these  tear-drops.     Good-by ! 

With  less  gold  and  more  gloom  in  their  hair, 
When  the  buds  near  have  faded  to  flowers, 

Three  faces  may  wake  here  as  fair — 
But  older  than  yours  are,  by  hours  ! 


LAST   WORDS. 


Good-night,  then,  lost  darlings  of  mine- 
I  never  shall  see  you  again : 

Ah,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine ; 
Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain ! 


MY    ARTIST. 

With  locks  that  might  be  better  shorn. 

High  on  a  steeple — who  is  that  ? 
"  It  is  the  man  who — I  forget — 
Stood  on  a  tower  in  the  wet." 

His  faults  ?  He  yet  is  young,  you  know- 
Four  with  his  last  year's  butterflies. 

But  think  what  wonders  books  may  show 
When  the  new  Tennysous  arise! 

For  fame  that  he  might  illustrate 

Let  poets  be  content  to  wait! 

58 


IN  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

THE  sweetness  dropp'd  from  the  cherry-blooms 

Over  the  sleep  that  is  never  stirr'd, 
And  the  twilight  droop' d  on  her  purple  plumes, 

And  flutter' d  and  moan'd,  like  a  dying  bird, 
Till  I  hid  my  face  in  the  scented  glooms. 

The  grasses  were  damp  where  the  thorns  had  grown; 

The  bats  flew  close  to  the  mouldering  staves  ; 
Some  wild,  white  buds,  with  a  windy  moan, 

Fell  with  their  faces  against  the  graves, 
And  the  moss-veils  hung  on  the  broken  stone. 

Out  of  the  dim  and  dusky  sky 

A  golden  blossoming  broke  ere  long, 
And  glitter'd  and  fell  on  the  spring-woods  nigh, 

Where  a  dove  was  hushing  her  sleepy  song  ; 
And  we  were  together,  the  dead  and  I. 

59" 


IX    THE    GRAVEYARD. 

"  The  heart  above,  with  its  breaking  strings, 
Wails  dissonant  music,  stormy  or  slow  ; 

But  ah  !  what  a  beautiful  stillness  clings, 
Sweet  Death,"  I  said,  "  to  the  hearts  below, 

That  are  touch'd  with  the  calm  of  your  pallid  wings. 


"  But  is  memory  still  where  the  vanished  go  ?" 
Then  I  thought  of  a  tender  dream  of  the  past, 

That  faded  and  fell  in  a  passionate  woe, 
Like  a  lotus-flower  in  a  poison'd  blast ; 

And  I  stared  in  the  shadow  and  said,  "  You  know. 


"  Come  out  of  your  silence  once  more,  and  seem 
The  thing  that  I  loved  in  the  years  afar, 

While  the  wild-bird  flutters  and  sings  in  its  dream, 
And  the  yellow  bloom  of  the  evening  star 

Drops,  as  of  old,  in  the  whispering  stream." 


You  came,  and  I  saw  the  tremulous  breeze 
Blow  the  loose  brown  hair  about  your  head ; 

You  came,  thro'  a  murmur  of  melodies  ; 
You  came,  for  love  can  awaken  the  dead  ; 

You  came,  and  stood  by  the  cherry-trees. 


IN    THE    GRAVEYARD. 

You  came,  and  your  white  hand  was  not  cold, 
And  your  quiet  eyes,  they  were  not  dim ; 

And  we  watched  the  moon-rise  dripping  with  gold, 
While  the  waters  chanted  a  vesper  hymn, 

And  your  lip  was  flush' d  with  the  tales  it  told. 

I  could  see  the  wings  of  the  sun's  pet  birds, 
I  could  hear  the  delicate  sigh  of  the  shells, 

And  the  giant  cry  of  the  seas  in  your  words  ; 
Yet  others  had  heard  but  the  distant  bells, 

And  seen  but  the  glimmer  of  rocks  and  herds. 

I  whisper'd  like  one  that  is  not  awake : 
"  Does  sorrow  die  with  our  dying  breath  ? 

Did  it  drop  from  your  life  like  a  wounded  snake, 
When  the  dust  of  your  beauty  was  touch'd  with 
death  ? 

Oh,  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  for  love's  sweet  sake. 

"  Say,  is  memory  still,  where  the  vanished  go  ? 

Say,  Presence  out  of  the  spicy  zones- 
Let  your  sweet  lip  whisper  the  secret  low, 

While  I  wait  by  the  mosses  and  broken  stones : 
Ah,  you  hide  in  your  silence,  and  yet  you  know." 

61 


THE  END   OF  THE   KAINBOW. 

MAY  you  go  to  find  it  ?     You  must,  I  fear ; 

Ah,  lighted  young  eyes,  could  I  show  you  how— 
"  Is  it  past  those  lilies  that  look  so  near  ?  " 

It  is  past  all  flowers.     Will  you  listen,  now  ? 

The  pretty  new  moons  faded  out  of  the  sky, 
The  bees  and  butterflies  out  of- the  air, 

And  sweet  wild  songs  would  flutter  and  fly 
Into  wet  dark  leaves  and  the  snow's  white  glare. 

There  were  winds  and  shells  full  of  lonesome  cries, 
There  were  lightnings  and  mists  along  the  way, 

And  the  deserts  would  glitter  against  my  eyes, 
Where  the  beautiful  phantom-fountains  play. 

At  last,  in  a  place  very  dusty  and  bare, 
Some  little  dead  birds  I  had  petted  to  sing, 

Some  little  dead  flowers  I  had  gather'd  to  wear, 
Some  wither'd  thorns  and  an  empty  ring, 


THE    END    OF   THE    RAINBOW. 


Lay  scatter'd.     My  fairy  story  is  told. 

(It  does  not  please  her :  she  has  not  smiled.) 
What  is  it  you  say  ?— Did  I  find  the  gold  ? 

Why,  I  found  the  End  of  the  Rainbow,  child ! 


TWO  BLUSH-ROSES. 

A  BLUSH-ROSE  lay  in  the  summer  ; 

There  were  golden  lights  in  the  sky, 
And  a  woman  saw  the  blossom 

As  she  stood  with  her  lover  nigh. 

A  band  in  the  flowering  distance 

Play'd  a  dreamy  Italian  air, 
Like  a  memory  changed  to  music, 

And  it  drifted  everywhere. 

'T  was  an  exiled  love  of  its  Southland, 
That  air,  and  its  delicate  wails 

Were  only  the  wandering  echoes 
Of  the  songs  of  nightingales. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  tenderly  whisper'd  ; 

"  I  love  you,"  she  answer'd  as  low : 
And  the  music  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter, 

Because  it  had  listen'd,  I  know. 

64 


TWO    KLUSH-KOSES. 

But  she  look'd  at  the  rose  in  the  summer, 

And  said,  with  a  tremulous  tear, 
"  The  love  that  now  beats  in  my  bosom 

"Will  bloom  in  a  blush-rose  next  year." 

A  blush-rose  lay  in  the  summer ; 

There  were  golden  lights  in  the  sky, 
And  a  woman  saw  the  blossom — 

As  she  stood  with  her  lover  nigh. 

The  band  in  the  flowering  distance 

Play'd  the  dreamy  Italian  air, 
Like  a  memory  changed  to  music, 

And  it  drifted  everywhere. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  tenderly  whisper'd ; 

"  I  love  you,"  she  timidly  said : 
And  the  music  grew  sadder  and  sadder, 

And  the  blush-rose  before  them  dropp'd  dead. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  music  remember' d, 

And  knew  the  love  that  had  beat 
Last  year  in  her  beautiful  bosom 

Lay  dead  in  the  rose  at  his  feet. 

65 


OF  A  PARTING. 

a  calm  of  stars,  my  own, 
Under  a  drooping  crescent  light, 
You  go,  while  fairy  sounds  are  blown 
Out  of  the  dreams  of  winds,  my  own — 

You  go  across  the  night ; 
But  on  some  far-off  strand  of  sunrise 
Our  hearts  meet  in  a  radiant  bliss, 
Not  damp,  like  this  ! 

You  go ;  the  calm  of  stars  must  go, 
The  crescent  light,  the  fairy  sounds  ; 

Billows  of  cloud  will  overflow 

The  golden  skies  :  but  you  must  go. 
And  in  its  stormy  rounds 

The  dark  will  hear  low,  fluttering  voices 
Cry  in  my  heart,  like  lonesome  birds, 
For  your  sweet  words. 

You  go,  and  twilights  made  for  love 

Will  gloom  between  us,  dim  with  dew ; 
The  spring-loosed  music  of  the  dove 
Will  search  the  emerald  woods  for  love, 


OF    A    PARTING. 

And  I  will  long  for  you, 
Among  the  blue  and  pearly  blossoms 
Far  on  the  mossy  hills,  alone, 

My  own,  my  own. 

But  you  must  loose  my  hands  and  go . 

Haste  with  those  tremulous  words  of  pain, 
For  I,  most  loved  of  all,  I  know 
(The  thought  is  full  of  tears)  some  go 

And  never  come  again ; 
So  wait,  and  let  me  look  forever 

Into  the  tenderness  that  lies 

In  those  deep  eyes. 

Ah  !  you  are  gone  ;  and  I — I  hold 
My  vacant  arms  to  all  who  part, 

And  weep  for  them,  and  long  to  fold 

Those  strangers  close,  and  say :  "I  hold 
Your  sorrow  in  my  heart ;" 

But  look — the  calm  of  stars  is  o'er  us, 
And  we  go  toward  their  lighted  shore, 
And  part  no  more. 

67 


A  CHILD'S  FIKST  SIGHT   OF  SNOW. 

OH,  come  and  look  at  his  blue,  sweet  eyes, 
As,  through  the  window,  they  glance  around 

And  see  the  glittering  white  surprise 
The  Night  has  laid  on  the  ground  ! 

This  beautiful  Mystery  you  have  seen, 
So  new  to  your  life,  and  to  mine  so  old, 

Little    wordless    Questioner "What   does    it 

mean  ?  " 
Why,  it  means,  I  fear,  that  the  world  is  cold. 


68 


A   LILY   OF   THE   NILE. 

WHO  was  the  beautiful  woman  whose  lover 

Once  left  her  this  dead  old  flower,  did  you  say  ? 

Well,  perhaps  that  is  she  in  the  picture  over 

The  vase  with  the  flowers  which  you  gather' d  to-day. 

The  one  with  the  deep  strange  dress,  that  is  flowing 
All  purple  and  pearls  through  each  stiffen'd  fold, 

And  the  band  on  her  forehead,  whose  dusk-red  glowing 
Shoots  into  great  sharp  thorns  of  gold. 

Never  mind  the  light.     You  will  see,  to-morrow, 
That,  with  eyes  raised  darkly  and  lips  close-prest, 

She  is  giving  away  her  awful  sorrow 
To  the  snake  she  keeps  at  her  breast ! 

"  And  who  was  her  lover  ?  "    Why,  that  may  be  he,  there, 
In  the  other  picture  glimmering  nigh — 

Yes,  the  handsome  and  wretched  man  you  see  there, 
Falling  against  his  sword  to  die. 


A    LILY   OF    THE    NILE. 

Will  he  die  for  her,  do  you  say  ?     (Ah,  will  he  ?) 

No  doubt  he  has  often  told  her  so ! 
•'  Did  it  bloom  far  away,  this  crumbling  lily  ?  " 

Very  far and  so  long  ago. 

And  who  gave  it  to  me? 

— So  the  wither'd  story 

•  I  've  dream'd  by  the  twilight  all  this  while, 
For  some  vanish'd  blossom's  day  of  glory, 
Is  your  truth,  my  Lily  of  the  Nile. 

For  the  beautiful  woman  is  slowly  dying 
Of  a  snake  as  plain  as  this  to  my  sight ; 

And  her  lover  who  gave  her  this  flower  is  lying 
On  the  edge  of  a  sword  to-night. 

70 


A  DISENCHANTMENT. 

AXD  thou  wast  but  a  breathing  May 

Embodied  by  delicious  dreams, 
And  drifted  o'er  my  wandering  way 

On  fancy's  swift  and  shining  streams. 
Thine  eyes  were  only  violets, 

Thy  lips  but  buds  of  crimson  bloom, 
Thy  hair,  coiled  sunshine — vain  regrets  ! 

Thy  soul,  a  brief  perfume. 

And  when  the  time  of  mists  and  chills 

Fell  where  the  sweet  wild  roses  grew, 
And  took  them  from  the  shadowy  hills, 

It  took  my  lovely  vision  too  ; 
And  when  I  came  again  to  find 

The  charm  which  used  to  fill  the  air, 
A  sorrow  struck  me  mute  and  blind — 

Thou  wast  not  anywhere ! 

Yet  something  met  me  in  thy  place, 

Something,  they  said,  with  looks  like  thine, 

With  tresses  full  of  golden  grace 

And  lips  flush'd  red  with  beauty's  wine  ; 

71 


A    DISENCHANTMENT. 

With  voice  of  silvery  swells  and  falls 
And  dreamy  eyes  still  sweetly  blue — 

But,  then,  the  reptile's  nature  crawls 
Beneath  the  rainbow's  hue. 

Woman,  all  things  below,  above, 

Look  pale  and  drear  and  glimmering  now, 
For  I  have  loved  thee  with  a  love 

Whose  passionate  deeps  such  things  as  thou 
May  never  sound.     And,  with  a  moan, 

The  chill'd  tide  of  that  love  has  rolled 
Above  my  heart,  and  made  it  stone, 

And  oh,  so  cold,  so  cold ! 

I  saw  thee  by  a  magic  lamp 

Whose  warm  and  gorgeous  blaze  is  gone, 
And  o'er  me  shivers,  gray  and  damp, 

The  dimness  of  the  real's  dawn. 
Oh,  I  am  like  to  one  who  stands 

Where  late  a  vision  smiled  in  air, 
And  murmurs,  with  outstretching  hands, 

"  Where  is  my  Angel — where  ?" 

72 


THE   FLOWEKS  IN   THE   GROUND. 

UNDER  the  coffin-lid  there  are  roses : 

They  bud  like  dreams  in  the  sleep  of  the  dead ; 

And  the  long,  vague  dark  that  around  them  closes 
Is  flush'd  and  sweet  with  their  glory  of  red. 

From  the  buried  seeds  of  love  they  blossom, 
All  crimson-stain'd  from  its  blood  they  start; 

And  each  sleeper  wears  them  on  his  bosom, 
Clasp'd  over  the  pallid  dust  of  his  heart. 

When  the  Angel  of  Morning  shall  shake  the  slumber 
Away  from  the  graves  with  his  lighted  wings, 

He  will  gather  thoses  roses,  an  infinite  number, 
A.ud  bear  them  to  Heaven,  the  beautiful  things ! 


QUESTIONS    OF  THE   HOUR. 

"Do  angels  wear  white  dresses,  say? 

Always,  or  only  in  the  summer  ?     Do 
Their  birthdays  have  to  come  like  mine,  in  May  ? 

Do  they  have  scarlet  sashes  then,  or  blue  ? 

"  When  little  Jessie  died  last  night, 

How  could  she  walk  to  Heaven — it  is  so  far  ? 

How  did  she  find  the  way  without  a  light? 
There  was  n't  even  any  moon  or  star. 

"  Will  she  have  red  or  golden  wings  ? 

Then  will  she  have  to  be  a  bird,  and  fly  ? 
Do  they  take  men  like  presidents  and  kings 

In  hearses  with  black  plumes  clear  to  the  sky? 

' '  How  old  is  God  ?     Has  he  gray  hair  ? 

Can  He  see  yet  ?     Where  did  He  have  to  stay 
Before — you  know — he  had  made — Anywhere? 

Who  does  He  pray  to — when  He  has  to  pray  ? 

74 


QUESTIONS    OF    THE    HOUR. 

"How  many  drops  are  in  the  sea  ? 

How  many  stars  ? well,  then,  you  ought  to  know 

How  many  flowers  are  on  an  apple-tree  ? 

How  does  the  wind  look  when  it  does  n't  blow  ? 


"  Where  does  the  rainbow  end?    And  why 
Did — Captain  Kidd — bury  the  gold  there  ?     When 

Will  this  world  burn  ?     And  will  the  firemen  try 
To  put  the  fire  out  with  the  engines  then  ? 

"  If  you  should  ever  die,  may  we 

Have  pumpkins  growing  in  the  garden,  so 

My  fairy  godmother  can  come  for  me, 

When  there's  a  prince's  ball,  and  let  me  go  ? 

"Read  Cinderella  just  once  more 

What  makes — men's  other  wives — so  mean  ? "    I  know 
That  I  was  tired,  it  may  be  cross,  before 

I  shut  the  painted  book  for  her  to  go. 

Hours  later,  from  a  child's  white  bed 

I  heard  the  timid,  last  queer  question  start : 

"  Mamma,  are  you — my  stepmother?  "  it  said. 
The  innocent  reproof  crept  to  my  heart. 


GASLIGHT  AND  STARLIGHT. 

THOSE  flowers  of  flame  that  blossom  at  night 
From  the  dust  of  the  city,  along  the  street, 

And  wreathe  rich  rooms  with  their  leaves  of  light, 
Were  dropping  their  tremulous  bloom  at  my  feet. 

And  the  men  whose  names  by  the  crowd  are  known, 
And  the  women  uplifted  to  share  their  place — 

Some  of  them  bright  with  their  jewels  alone, 
Some  of  them  brighter  with  beauty  and  grace — 

Were  around  me  under  the  flashing  rays, 
All  seeming,  I  thought  as  I  saw  them  there, 

To  ask  the  throng,  in  their  pleased,  mute  ways, 
For  its  bow,  or  its  smile,  or  at  least  its  stare. 

But,  faint  with  the  odors  that  floated  about, 
And  tired  of  the  glory  the  few  can  win, 

I  turned  to  the  window :   the  darkness  without 
Struck  heavily  on  the  glitter  within, 


GASLIGHT    AND    STARLIGHT. 

Still  the  glare  behind  me  haunted  my  brain, 

And  I  thought :  "  They  are  blest  who  are  shining 
so;" 

But  a  voice  replied  :  "  You  are  blinded  and  vain — 
Such  triumph  when  highest  is  often  low. 

"  For  some,"  it  said,  with  a  slow,  sad  laugh, 
"  Who  wear  so  proudly  their  little  names, 

Have  leant  on  the  People,  as  on  a  staff 
To  help  them  up  to  their  selfish  fames. 

"  And  others  yet — it  is  hard  to  know — 

Have  crawl'd  through  the  dust  to  their  sunny  hour, 

To  crawl  the  same  in  its  warmth  and  glow 
And  hiss  the  snake  in  the  colors  of  Power. 

"  Yet  it  is  comfort  to  feel,  through  the  whole, 
They  only  look  great,  in  God's  calm  eyes, 

Who  lean  on  the  still,  grand  strength  of  the  soul 
And  climb  toward  the  pure,  high  light  of  the  skies." 

77 


A  DREAM'S  AWAKENING. 

SHUT  in  a  close  and  dreary  sleep, 
Lonely  and  frightened  and  oppress'd 

I  felt  a  dreadful  serpent  creep, 

Writhing  and  crushing,  o'er  my  breast. 

I  woke  and  knew  my  child's  sweet  arm, 
As  soft  and  pure  as  flakes  of  snow, 

Beneath  my  dream's  dark,  hateful  charm, 
Had  been  the  thing  that  tortured  so. 

And,  in  the  morning's  dew  arid  light 
I  seem'd  to  hear  an  angel  say, 

"  The  Pain  that  stings  in  Time's  low  night 
May  prove  God's  Love  in  higher  day." 

78 


TALK   ABOUT    GHOSTS. 
[AT  BED-TIME.] 

"  Each  of  us  carries  within  him  a  future  ghost.'" 

WHAT  is  a  ghost?     "It  is  something  white, 

(And  I  guess  it  goes  barefooted,  too,) 
That  comes  from  the  graveyard  in  the  night, 

When  the  doors  are  lock'd,  and  breaks  right  through." 
What  does  it  do  ? 

"Oh,  it  frightens  people  ever  so  much, 
And  goes  away  when  the  chickens  crow  ; 

And — doesn't  steal  any  spoons,  or  touch 
One  thing  that  is  n't  its  own,  you  know." 
Who  told  you  so  ? 

"  Somebody — every  body,  almost ; 

Or  I  knew,  myself,  when  this  world  begun. 
Not  even  a  General  could  kill  a  ghost — 

I  wish  the  Lord  had  never  made  one. 
They  hate  the  sun  !  " 


TALK   ABOUT    GHOSTS. 

No,  sweetest  of  all  wee  brown-eyed  girls, 
They  love  the  light — 't  is  the  dark  they  fear  ; 

Love  riches  and  power,  love  laces  and  pearls  ; 
Love — all  the  -preacher  calls  vanity  here. 
This  much  is  clear. 

"Do  they  love  to  be  dead?"     I  can  but  tell 
That  few  of  them  greatly  love  to  die : 

Perhaps  they  doubt  whether  all  is  well 

In  the  place  where  ghosts yes,  "up  in  the  sky." 

You  wonder  why  ? 

They  love  their  clothes   (and  want  to   keep  dressM:) 
Whether  new  and  prettily  white  and  red, 

Or  gray  and  ragged,  'tis  hard,  at  best, 

To  take  them  off— though  the  prayers  are  said— 
And  go  to  bed. 

80 


A  YEAR.— MDCCCLX. 

MY  spirit  saw  a  scene 
Whose  splendors  were  so  terrible  and  bright 

That  the  infinitude  of  mist  between 
The  earth  and  sky  scarce  saved  its  eagle-sight 
From  being  blasted.     In  the  middle  night 

He  stood,  the  Guardian  Angel  of  the  Years  : 
His  wings — that  could  extend  their  quenchless  light 

Across  eternity,  and  rock  the  spheres 
With  their  immortal  strength — were  folded  *now, 
Like  a  still  veil  of  glory,  on  his  brow. 

One  fiery  star  and  vast, 
A  gem  to  note  the  year,  forever  more 

Burn'd  in  his  ancient  crown  ;  and  fierce  and  fast 
Escaped  the  flame  from  out  the  one  he  wore, 
Whose  dimness  vaguely  settled  on  each  shore 

Along  the  seas  of  space  ;  and,  pale  and  lone, 
But  kingly  with  the  solemn  pride  of  yore, 

Clinching  the  grandeur  of  a  shadowy  throne, 
As  if  to  hold  his  royalty  from  Death, 
One  lean'd  beside  him  with  an  icy  breath. 

81 


A    YEAR. 

Nor  earth,  nor  heaven  will  save 
Us  from  the  Doom  which  claim' d  that  mighty  thing ; 

But,  then,  who  fears  or  thinks  upon  the  grave — 
That  narrow  dark  through  which  the  free  may  spring 
To  the  wide  light  beyond  ?     Who  seeks  to  cling 

With  coward  grasp  to  fetters  and  to  strife  ? 
Death  is  the  only  halcyon  whose  white  wing 

Can  still  the  billows  of  a  restless  life. 
Yet,  were  the  present  peace,  the  future  woe, 
New  storms  are  better  than  a  calm  we  know. 

He  said,  "  My  sceptre  cast 
Its  shadows  far  as  God's  dominions  lie  ; 

Storms  blew  their  thunder-trumpets  as  I  pass'd, 
And  lightnings  follow'd  me  about  the  sky. 
I  clasped  th'  unwilling  worlds  and  heard  them  sigh 

Against  my  breast  with  all  their  winds  and  waves  ; 
Ay,  as  my  victor  chariot  hurried  by 

Sun,  star,  and  comet,  like  affrighted  slaves, 
Flung  portions  of  their  measured  light  below 
Its  silent  wheels  to  make  a  triumph  glow 

"  I  passed  yon  radiant  crowd 
Of  constellations,  and  there  knelt  beside 

The  Cross  upon  whose  like  a  God  has  bow'd  ; 
I  met  the  mourning  Pleiades,  and  cried 

82 


A    YEAR. 

To  their  lost  sister  in  th'  unanswering  tide 
Of  night ;  I  struck  weird  music  from  the  Lyre, 

And  humbled  old  Orion's  sullen  pride, 
Who  lean'd  against  his  cimeter  of  fire, 

And,  with  submissive  reverence  and  mute, 

Acknowledged  my  imperious  salute. 

"  Look,  look — for  all  his  deeds 
Must  pass  before  the  sight  of  him  who  dies  ; 

Mine  crowd  the  infinite  spaces — but  man  needs 
Not  to  be  told  of  those  whose  scenery  lies 
Beyond  the  bounds  he  knows,  for  his  dim  eyes 

See  but  the  things  I  have  around  him  wrought ; 
He  will  not  hear  the  dirge  that  soon  must  rise 

For  me  in  all  the  myriad  realms  his  thought 
May  visit,  only  by  the  hazy  route 
That  glimmers  round  the  reeling  sails  of  Doubt. 

"  The  shadow  of  his  world, 
Like  a  dark  canvas  spread  before  me  seems : 

There  hides  the  hermit  West,  with  cataracts  whirl1  d 
Among  the  rocks,  watching  their  foamy  beams  ; 
There  are  the  groves  of  myrrh,  and  diamond  gleams, 

Where — fair  as  if  it  erewhile  floated  to 
Its  own  warm  poets,  in  their  lotus  dreams, 

As  an  ideal  Aidenn,  and  there  grew 

83 


A    YEAR. 

Into  reality — the  Orient  lies 

Close  to  the  morn  'mid  birds  of  Paradise. 

"  There  ice-mail' d  warders  keep 
The  gates  of  silence  by  the  auroral  rays 

Which  fall  above  the  cold-press'd  North  asleep, 
Like  a  proud,  pallid  Queen,  in  the  rich  blaze 
Of  colored  lamps,  upon  whose  bosom  weighs 

A  dreary  vision ;  and  there,  too,  the  sweet, 
Sun-worshipp'd  South  in  languid  beauty  stays, 

Like  a  sultana,  caring  but  to  meet 
Her  fiery  lover  'mid  her  gorgeous  bowers, 
And,  as  his  bride,  be  crown'd  with  orange  flowers. 

"  And,  over  all,  there  moves 
The  phantasm  of  my  life.     With  joy  and  dread 

I  see  it  passing,  and  my  memory  proves 
Its  truth  to  nature.  Roses  white  and  red, 
Whose  leaves  into  the  winds  have  long  been  shed, 

And  tremulous  lily-bells,  and  jasmine  blooms 
Are  there,  as  they  had  risen  from  the  dead, 

So  like  their  early  selves  their  lost  perfumes 
Seem  blown  about  them,  and  I  hear  the  breeze 
That  used  to  kiss  them  sing  old  melodies. 

"  Above,  the  changing  sky 
Shows  wonder-pictures  to  my  fading  eyes  : 

84 


A    YEAR. 

Now,  the  black  armies  of  the  clouds  march  by, 
Now  rainbows  bloom,  now  golden  moons  arise. 
Below,  how  varied  too :  now  glitter  lies 

On  gorgeous  jewels,  bridal-flowers  and  mirth ; 
Now  mourners  pass,  and  fill  the  air  with  sighs, 

To  hide  their  coffins  in  the  yawning  earth ; 
Now,  with  a  pallid  face  and  frenzied  mind, 
Cold,  starving  wretches  ask  if  God  is  blind ! 

"  Now  reels  a  nightmare  throne 
From  the  crush'd  bosom  of  the  Sicilies, 

The  South's  brief  dream  of  blood  wakes  in  the  sun  ; 
Glad  winds  sing  on  the  blue  Italian  seas, 
And  glad  men  bless  me  by  their  olive-trees ; 

Now,  in  the  clouds  above  a  younger  land, 
With  awful  eyes  fix'd  on  its  destinies, 

The  frowning  souls  of  its  dead  Glorious  stand 
And  see  a  fiery  madness,  that  would  blast 
God's  miracle  of  freedom,  kindling  fast." 

He  fix'd  a  dark,  wild  look 
On  his  celestial  watcher,  as  in  hate ; 

Then   grasp'd   him,    till  his   passionless    grandeur 

shook, 

And  mutter' d:  "  Spirit,  see  the  fate  of  fate 
I've  left  upon  mortality's  estate. 

85 


A    YE  All. 

Into  reality — the  Orient  lies 

Close  to  the  morn  'mid  birds  of  Paradise. 

"  There  ice-mail' d  warders  keep 
The  gates  of  silence  by  the  auroral  rays 

Which  fall  above  the  cold-press'd  North  asleep, 
Like  a  proud,  pallid  Queen,  in  the  rich  blaze 
Of  colored  lamps,  upon  whose  bosom  weighs 

A  dreary  vision ;  and  there,  too,  the  sweet, 
Sun-worshipp'd  South  in  languid  beauty  stays, 

Like  a  sultana,  caring  but  to  meet 
Her  fiery  lover  'mid  her  gorgeous  bowers, 
And,  as  his  bride,  be  crown'd  with  orange  flowers. 

"  And,  over  all,  there  moves 
The  phantasm  of  my  life.     With  joy  and  dread 

I  see  it  passing,  and  my  memory  proves 
Its  truth  to  nature.  Roses  white  and  red, 
Whose  leaves  into  the  winds  have  long  been  shed, 

And  tremulous  lily-bells,  and  jasmine  blooms 
Are  there,  as  they  had  risen  from  the  dead, 

So  like  their  early  selves  their  lost  perfumes 
Seem  blown  about  them,  and  I  hear  the  breeze 
That  used  to  kiss  them  sing  old  melodies. 

"  Above,  the  changing  sky 
Shows  wonder-pictures  to  my  fading  eyes  : 


A    YEAR. 

Now,  the  black  armies  of  the  clouds  march  by, 
Now  rainbows  bloom,  now  golden  moons  arise. 
Below,  how  varied  too :  now  glitter  lies 

On  gorgeous  jewels,  bridal-flowers  and  mirth ; 
Now  mourners  pass,  and  fill  the  air  with  sighs, 

To  hide  their  coffins  in  the  yawning  earth ; 
Now,  with  a  pallid  face  and  frenzied  mind, 
Cold,  starving  wretches  ask  if  God  is  blind ! 

"  Now  reels  a  nightmare  throne 
From  the  crush'd  bosom  of  the  Sicilies, 

The  South' s  brief  dream  of  blood  wakes  in  the  sun  ; 
Glad  winds  sing  on  the  blue  Italian  seas, 
And  glad  men  bless  me  by  their  olive-trees ; 

Now,  in  the  clouds  above  a  younger  land, 
With  awful  eyes  fix'd  on  its  destinies, 

The  frowning  souls  of  its  dead  Glorious  stand 
And  see  a  fiery  madness,  that  would  blast 
God's  miracle  of  freedom,  kindling  fast." 

He  fix'd  a  dark,  wild  look 
On  his  celestial  watcher,  as  in  hate ; 

Then   grasp' d   him,    till  his   passionless   grandeur 

shook, 

And  mutter' d:  "  Spirit,  see  the  fate  of  fate 
I've  left  upon  mortality's  estate. 

85 


A    YEAR. 

And  thou  didst  suffer  all  this  ruin,  thou 
Whose  office  was  to  warn  me  ;  'tis  too  late 

For  me  to  give  thee  these  reproaches  now, 
For  I  am  growing  cold — my  deeds  are  done, 
And  thou  shouldst  blush  for  them,  thou  guilty  one. 

"  I  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  hear — 
For,  Guardian  Angel  of  the  Years,  I  swear 

Thou  art  a  traitor  to  thy  God !     And  fear 
A  traitor's  fate,  if  thou  again  shalt  dare 
Neglect  thy  task.     Then  aid  him  who  shall  bear 

The  sceptre  I  resign  to  quench  all  wrong, 
And  kindle  right — or,  when  I  meet  thee  where 

None  may  evade  the  truth,  my  oath,  as  strong 
As  aught  except  thy  brother  Lucifer's  curse, 
Shall  drag  thee  down  to  share  his  doom  or  worse ! 

"  Mortals,  I  go,  I  go. 
Yet,  though  we  part,  it  is  to  meet  again ; 

My  ghost  will  come  with  noiseless  step  and  slow 
Along  the  twilights,  whispering  of  my  reign  ; 
And,  in  the  night-times,  oft  a  mystic  strain 

Shall  strike  your  sleep,  and  ye  shall  know  my  tone, 
Singing  remembered  airs,  not  all  in  vain, 

And  chorus  them  with  an  unconscious  moan ; 

86 


A    YEAH. 


And  I  must  witness  of  you  in  the  day 

When  earth  and  heaven  shall  melt  in  fire  away/' 

He  drew  the  dark  around 
His  ghastly  face — the  nations  sigh'd  farewell ; 

He  stagger1  d  from  his  throne — an  awful  sound 
Rolled  down  from  every  system's  every  bell, 
That  toll'd  together  once  to  make  his  knell, 

And  the  resplendent  crown-star,  that  had  flash'd 
On  the  lone  Angel's  brow,  grew  black  and  fell — 

Shattering  among  six  thousand  more  it  crash'd. 
I  ask'd :  "  How  many  stay  for  him  to  wear  ?" 
I  woke  :  and  Midnight's  silence  fill'd  the  air. 


ON  A  WEDDING  DAY. 

I  LOOK  far-off  across  the  blue, 

Still  distance  vague  with  woods  and  Spring 
The  Earth  is  sweet  with  buds  and  dew  ; 

The  birds  their  early  carols  sing. 

I  look,  and  somehow  wish  the  hours 
Held  calm  and  sun  and  bloom  alone : 

No  fallen  leaves,  no  wither'd  flowers, 
No  storm,  no  wreck,  no  mist,  no  moan  ; 

No  painted  palms  of  air  on  sand, 

No  poisons  where  the  spice-winds  blow, 

No  dark  shapes  haunting  sea  and  land — 
But  wherefore  am  I  dreaming  so  ? 

It  is  because  this  music  swells 

Across  the  lighted  April  day— 
Because  I  hear  your  bridal  bells, 

Fail-  girl,  a  thousand  miles  away. 


ON    A    WEDDING    DAY. 

Yes,  lovely  in  a  holy  place, 

Enchanted  by  my  dream  you  rise  : 
The  young  blush-roses  on  your  face, 

The  timid  darkness  in  your  eyes. 

And,  golden  on  your  hand,  I  see 
The  glitter  of  a  sacred  thing : 

I  wish  some  Fairy,  friend,  may  be 

Slave  of  the  ring— your  wedding  ring ! 

89 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

THE  roses  and  stars  vere  in  blossom  : 

She  leant  by  the  lattice  alone, 
And  a  pet  dove,  white  as  a  lily, 

Flew  out  of  the  night  with  a  moan, 
And  nestled  down  close  in  her  bosom, 

To  hide  from  the  wound  in  its  own. 

Tears  rain'd  on  the  snow  of  its  plumage, 
Tears  rain'd  on  the  golden  moonshine ; 

"Ah,  beautiful,  tremulous  darling," 

She  murmured,  "  my  life  is  like  thine — 

Only  I  have  no  bosom  to  fly  to, 
My  bird,  as  you  fly  into  mine." 

The  south-moon  dropp'd  under  the  shadow, 
Yet  she  stay'd  to  remember  and  weep, 

Till — what  was  the  wonderful  Presence, 
So  quiet  and  holy  and  deep, 

That  stole  thro'  the  dreams  of  the  roses, 
Till  they  shook  out  their  sweetness  in  sleep  ? 
oo 


THE    DOVE    AND    THE    ANGEL. 

Ah,  an  Angel  that  once  was  a  mortal 
Flew  out  of  the  glories  unknown, 

And,  like  the  white  dove  from  the  darkness 
That  came  to  her  love  with  its  moan, 

She  nestled  down  close  in  his  bosom, 
And  hid  from  the  wound  in  her  own. 

91 


HER  TALK  WITH  A   REDBIRD. 

[AT   MORNING  BEFORE   SUNRISE.] 

"  THE  only  things  in  the  world  awake, 

And  I  for  grief  as  for  gladness  you, 
Let  us  be  quiet.     We  should  not  shake 

The  beautiful  dimness  from  the  dew. 

"It  is  early  to  you,  to  me  it  is  late. 

You  rise  in  bloom  toward  the  morning  light; 
I  stand  in  the  thorn's  sharp  shadow  and  wait 

For  strength  to  crawl  away  from  the  night. 

"  Oh,  Bird,  flush'd  Bird,  you  can  sing  and  fly. 

For  the  song  I  hear  and  the  wings  I  see, 
I  would  give  you — my  soul  and  its  share  in  the  sky; 

And  I  would  be  you  and  you  should  be  me. 

"They  would  tell  my  children  their  mother  was  dead. 

'  Never  mind,  she  was  tired  and  pale,'  they  would  say, 
'  But  here  is  a  Bird,  so  pretty  and  red, 

'  In  your  trees to  cry  might  scare  it  away ! ' ! 

92 


MY  WEDDING  RING. 

MY  heart  stirr'd  with  its  golden  thrill 
And  flutter'd  closer  up  to  thine, 

In  that  blue  morning  of  the  June 

When  first  it  clasp'd  thy  love  and  mine. 

In  it  I  see  the  little  room, 

Rose-dim  and  hush'd  with  lilies  still, 
Where  the  old  silence  of  my  life 

Turn'd  into  music  with  "  I  will." 

Oh,  I  would  have  my  folded  hands 
Take  it  into  the  dust  with  me  : 

All  other  little  things  of  mine 

I'd  leave  in  the  bright  world  with  thee. 


A  FALLING  STAR. 

JUST  then,  upon  its  wings  of  fire, 

A  star  went  flying  by, 
And  vanished  o'er  the  waves  of  cloud, 

A  sea-bird  of  the  sky ! 

To-night  there  ring  within  my  heart 

Old  half-forgotten  chimes, 
Whose  mournful  music  memory  caught 

Among  its  nursery-rhymes. 

In  those  sweet  years  I've  heard  them  say 

No  wish  could  be  in  vain, 
If  it  were  form'd  while  flash'd  thro'  Heaven 

A  meteor's  sudden  train. 

Ah,  then  I  only  wish'd  to  catch 

The  blue-birds  on  the  hill, 
Or,  with  bare  feet  to  wander  down 

Some  shady  woodland  rill. 


A   FALLING    STAR. 

For  (oh,  how  long  ago  it  seems  !) 

I  then  was  but  a  child, 
Whose  cheek  was  bright,  whose  golden  hair 

Upon  the  winds  flew  wild  ; 

Whose  tiny  hand  drove  humming-birds 

From  many  a  rose's  breast, 
Whose  sunny  brow  and  lisping  lip 

A  mother's  kisses  press'd. 

But  since  the  years  have  pass'd  and  left 

Their  paleness  on  my  brow, 
Their  twilight  shadows  in  my  heart — 

What  are  my  wishes  now  ? 

When  next  a  fire  shall  flash  along 

The  night's  eternal  blue, 
What  can  I  ask  ere  it  shall  fade 

Forever  from  my  view  ? 


PLAYING  BEGGARS. 

"  LET  us  pretend  we  are  two  beggars."     "  No, 

For  beggars  are  im something,  something  ba  1  ; 

You  know  they  are,  because  Papa  says  so, 

And  Papa  when  he  calls  them  that  looks  mad ; 

You  should  have  seen  him,  how  he  frown'd  one  day, 

When  Mamma  gave  his  wedding-coat  away." 

"  Well,  now  he  can't  get  married  any  more, 
Because  he  has  no  wedding-coat  to  wear. 

But  that  poor  ragged  soldier  at  the  door 

Was  starved  to  death  in  prison  once  somewhere, 

And  shot  dead  somewhere  else,  and  it  was  right 

To  give  him  coats — because  he  had  to  fight. 

"  Now  let's  be  beggars."    "  They're  im — posters.    Yes, 
That 's  what  they  are,  im — postors  ;  and  that  means 

Rich  people,  for  they  all  are  rich,  I  guess — 
Richer  than  we  are,  rich  as  Jews  or  queens, 

And  they're  just  playing  beggars  when  they  cry " 

"  Then  let  us  play  like  they  do,  you  and  I." 


PLAYING    BEGGARS. 

"Well,  we'll  be  rich  and  wear  old  naughty  clothes." 
"But  they're  not  rich.     If  they  were  rich  they'd  buy 

All  the  fine  horses  at  the  fairs  and  shows 

To  give  to  General  Grant.     I  '11  tell  you  why : 

Once  when  the  rebels  wanted  to  kill  all 

The  men  in  this  world — he  let  Richmond  fall ! 


"  TJiat  broke  them  up  !     I  like  the  rebels,  though, 
Because  they  have  the  curliest  kind  of  hair. 

One  time,  so  many  years  and  years  ago, 
I  saw  one  over  in  Kentucky  there. 

It  show'd  me  such  a  shabby  sword  and  said 

It  wanted  to  cut  off— Somebody's  head ! 

"  But — do  play  beggar.     You  be  one ;  and,  mind, 
Shut  up  one  eye,  and  get  all  over  dust, 

And  say  this : 

'  Lady,  be  so  very  kind 
As  to  give  me  some  water.     Well,  I  must 

Rest  on  your  step,  I  think,  ma'am,  for  a  while — 

I've  walk'd  full  twenty  if  I've  walk'd  one  mile. 

"  *  Lady,  this  is  your  little  girl,  I  know : 
She  is  a  beautiful  child — and  just  like  you  ; 

07 


PLAYING    BEGGARS. 

You  look  too  young  to  be  her  mother,  though. 

This  handsome  boy  is  like  his  father,  too: 
The  gentleman  was  he  who  pass'd  this  way 
And  look'd  so  cross  ? — so  pleasant  I  should  say. 

"  '  But  trouble,  Lady,  trouble  puts  me  wrong. 

Lady,  I'm  sure  you'll  spare  a  dress  or  two — 
You  look  so  stylish.     (Oh,  if  I  was  strong !) 

And  shoes  ?    Yours  are  too  small.    I  need  them  new. 

The  money thank  you  !     Now  you  have  some  tea, 

And  flour,  and  sugar,  you  '11  not  miss,  for  me  ? 

"  '  Ah,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  house 

Was  burn'd  last  night.     My  baby  has  no  bread, 

And  I'm  as  poor,  ma'am,  as  a  cellar-mouse. 

My  husband  died  once  ;    my  grandmother 's  dead — 

She  was  a  good  soul  (but  she's  gone,  that's  true — 

You  have  some  coffee,  madam?)— so  are  you.'" 

"Oh,  it's  too  long.     I  can't  say  half  of  that! 

I  '11  not  be  an  im — postor,  any  how. 
(But  I  should  like  to  give  one  my  torn  hat, 

So  I  could  get  a  prettier  one,  just  now.) 
They  're  worse  than  Christians,  ghosts,  or — any  thing  ! 

—I  '11  play  that  I  'm  a  great  man  or  a  king." 


STONE   FOR    A   STATUE. 

LEAVE  what  is  white  for  whiter  use. 

For  such  a  purpose  as  your  own 
Would  be  a  dreary  jest,  a  harsh  abuse, 

A  bitter  wrong   to  snowy  stone. 

Let  the  pure  marble's  silence  hold 
Its  unshaped  gods,  and  do  not  break 

Those  hidden  images  divine  and  old, 

To-day,  for  one  mean  man's  small  sake  ! 

99 


A  BIRD'S  WING  AND  A  SOUL'S. 

FOB    MY    SISTER    AXD    BKOTHEE. 

THIS  small  bright  wing,  that  used  to  fly 
In  far  Kentucky's  summer  light 

And  lift  clear  music  toward  the  sky, 
Lies  full  of  tears  to-night. 

Wild  little  memory  of  the  woods 
In  whose  dark  paths  we  loved  to  go, 

When  the  old  hills  were  flush'd  with  buds 
Or  pallid  with  the  snow : 

I  kiss  you,  tenderly  and  fast — 
For  her,  the  beautiful  and  dear, 

Between  whose  lips  and  mine  have  pass'd 
The  dim  waves  of  a  year ; 

For  him  through  whose  dark,  careless  hair 
The  shadows  of  the  palm-trees  play — 

Perchance  in  warm  Pacific  air 
He  thinks  of  us  to-day. 

10J 


A  BIKD'S  WING  AND  A  s6uL's. 

Ah,  were  I  but  the  light,  free  bird 

That  wore  you  through  old  woodland  glooms, 
Familiar  leaves  should  soon  be  stirr'd 

With  my  returning  plumes. 

But  that  wild,  winged  thing  is  dust 

Where  wither'd  falls  have  dropp'd  and  blown, 
And  my  wild,  winged  thoughts,  I  trust, 

Can  fly  on  love  alone. 

101 


FALLEN    ANGELS. 

THEY  were  to  be  the  fairest  ever  known 

In  the  sphere  of  unstain'd  Art,  and  to  hold  the  high, 

far  places 
Among  the  shapes  of  Beauty  born  of  stone, 

With  divinest  lift  of  wings   and  divinest  calm  of 
faces. 

The  sculptor  started  backward  with  a  cry, 

And  he  pass'd  across  his  eyes  his  piteous,  worn  hands 

slowly : — 
Was  this  his  great  white  vision  from  the  sky, 

Standing  palpable  in  marble,  yet  all  radiant  and 
holy? 

He  saw  his  days,  his  nights,  his  passions  there, 

And  his  strength — a  giant  image  that  seem'd  wrest 
ling  with  its  stillness — 
Imprison'd  in  one  wide  hush  of  despair, 

At  the   feet  of  Fallen   Angels,   staring  back   with 
empty  chillness ! 

102 


TO  MARIAN  ASLEEP. 

THE  full  moon  glimmers  still  and  white, 
Where  yonder  shadowy  clouds  unfold ; 

The  stars,  like  children  of  the  Night, 
Lie  with  their  little  heads  of  gold 

On  her  dark  lap  :  nor  less  divine, 

And  brighter,  seems  your  own  on  mine. 

My  darling,  with  your  snowy  sleep 
Folded  around  your  dimpled  form, 

Your  little  breathings  calm  and  deep, 
Your  mother's  arms  and  heart  are  warm ; 

You  wear  as  lilies  in  your  breast 

The  dreams  that  blossom  from  your  rest. 

Ah,  must  your  clear  eyes  see  ere  long 
The  mist  and  wreck  on  sea  and  land, 

And  that  old  haunter  of  all  song, 
The  mirage  hiding  in  the  sand  ? 

And  will  the  dead  leaves  in  the  frost 

Tell  you  of  song  and  summer  lost  ? 


TO    MAKIAN   ASLEEP. 

And  shall  you  hear  the  ghastly  tales 
From  the  slow,  solemn  lips  of  Time — 

Of  Wrong  that  wins,  of  Right  that  fails, 
Of  trampled  Want  and  gorgeous  Crime, 

Of  Splendor's  glare  in  lighted  rooms 

And  Famine's  moan  in  outer  glooms  ? 

Of  armies  in  their  red  eclipse 

That  mingle  on  the  smoking  plain ; 

Of  storms  that  dash  our  mighty  ships 
With  silks  and  spices  through  the  main  ; 

Of  what  it  costs  to  climb  or  fall — 

Of  Death's  great  Shadow  ending  all  ? 

But,  baby  Marian,  do  I  string 

The  dark  with  darker  rhymes  for  you, 
Forgetting  that  you  came  in  Spring, 

The  child  of  sun  and  bloom  and  dew, 
And  that  I  kiss'd,  still  fresh  to-day, 
The  rosiest  bud  of  last  year's  May  ? 

Forgive  me,  pretty  one :  I  know, 
Whatever  sufferings  onward  lie, 

Christ  wore  his  crown  of  thorns  below 
To  gain  his  crown  of  light  on  high ; 

And  when  the  lamp's  frail  flame  is  gone, 

Look  up  :  the  stars  will  still  shine  on. 

104 


A  PRESIDENT  AT  HOME.* 

I  PASS'D  a  President's  House  to-day 

"  A  President,  mamma,  and  what  is  that  ?  " 

Oh,  it  is  a  man  who  has  to  stay 

Where  bowing  beggars  hold  out  the  hat 

For  something — a  man  who  has  to  be 

The  Captain  of  every  ship  that  we 

Send  with  our  darling  flag  to  the  sea — 

The  Colonel  at  home  who  has  to  command 

Each  marching  regiment  in  the  land. 

This  President  now  has  a  single  room, 

That  is  low  and  not  much  lighted,  I  fear ; 

Yet  the  butterflies  play  in  the  sun  and  gloom 
Of  his  evergreen  avenue,  year  by  year ; 

And  the  child-like  violets  up  the  hill 

Climb,  faintly  wayward,  about  him  still ; 

And  the  bees  blow  by  at  the  wind's  wide  will ; 

*  At  North  Bend,  Ohio  River— the  tomb  of  General  Harrison. 
105 


A    PRESIDENT    AT    HOME. 

And  the  cruel  river,  that  drowns  men  so, 
Looks  pretty  enough  in  the  shadows  below. 

Just  one  little  fellow  (named  Robin)  was  there, 

In  a  red  Spring  vest,  and  he  let  me  pass 
With  that  charming-careless,  high-bred  air 

Which  comes  of  serving  the  great.     In  the  grass 

He  sat,  half-singing,  with  nothing  to  do 

No,  I  did  not  see  the  President  too  : 
His  door  was  lock'd  (what  I  say  is  true), 
And  he  was  asleep,  and  has  been,  it  appears, 
Like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  asleep  for  years ! 

10G 


AN  EAGLE'S  PLUME   FROM  PALESTINE. 

LEAVING  the  summer  in  the  palms  asleep 

For  lonely  circles  in  the  upper  deep — 
Leaving  the  wild  crusader's  risen  blood, 
That  stands  in  many  a  crimson-stained  bud, 

As  if  to  make  a  gentle  guard  of  flowers, 
To  keep  the  memory  of  the  Holy  Cross 

Safe  from  the  dark  hands  of  unholy  powers — 
Leaving  the  valley  lilies  and  the  moss  : 

Far  up  the  silence  of  that  Eastern  sky, 

Whose  suns  and  stars  are  haunted  by  the  shine 
Left  by  the  death-smile  of  a  God,  'twas  thine 

To  feel  the  vastness  of  infinity ! 

Phantoms  of  olive-trees,  old  cedar  glooms, 

A  sacred  stream — with  tremulous,  snowy  plumes 

Bearing  the  Father's  blessing  from  above, 

Shaped  in  the  timid  likeness  of  a  dove — 
And  many  solemn  things,  before  me  sweep, 

Call'd  up  by  thee,  thou  that  hast  sailed  far  noons, 
And  lain  against  a  lonesome  mountain  sleep 

Close  to  the  golden-lighted  Asian  moons  ; 

107 


AX  EAGLE'S  PLUME  FROM  PALESTINE. 

Yet,  dusk  enchanter,  saddest  of  the  sights, 
Which  thy  still  wizardry  has  come  to  bring, 
Seems  the  dread  picture  of  a  falling  wing — 

A  flying  farewell  to  the  sunward  heights  ! 

A  falling  wing — ah,  even  when  it  glows 
With  little  fires  and  burns  down  from  a  rose, 

It  must  resist  its  sinking,  with  a  pain 

That  is  sublime — a  wish  to  rise  again : 
But  when  its  place  has  been  above  the  cloud, 

Where  its  high  strength  has  dared  the  storm  afar, 
Then  feels  a  downward  weakness,  slow  and  proud 

It  drops — as  grandly  as  an  unsphered  star, 
Whose  arms  of  light  strive  with  their  utmost  powers 

To  hold  a  place  in  heaven ;  and  thus  dropp'd  thine, 

Dead  eagle  of  the  skies  of  Palestine, 
And  thus  drop  many  in  this  world  of  ours  ! 

108 


A  CHAIN  FROM  VENICE. 

SHE  stretches  dimpled  arms  of  snow ; 

A  glad  smile  lights  her  baby  eyes  : 
My  little  beauty,  would  you  know 

The  story  of  your  shining  prize  ? 

It  is  a  poet's  golden  thought 

Of  you,  that  glitters  like  your  hair, 

Of  rich  Venetian  sunlight  wrought 
Far  in  the  South's  enchanted  air. 

Ah,  if  you  stay  from  Heaven  to  learn 
The  years  before  you  lying  dim, 

You'll  think,  my  darling,  in  return, 
A  thought  as  beautiful  of  him. 

109 


A  WALK  TO   MY   OWN  GRAVE. 

[WITH   THREE    CHILDREN.] 

THERE  !  do  not  stop  to  cry. 

"  The  path  is  long  ? — we  walk  so  slow?  " 
But  we  shall  get  there  by  and  by. 

Every  step  that  we  go 

Is  one  step  nearer,  you  know  : 
And  your  mother's  grave  will  be 
Such  a  pretty  place  to  see. 

"  Will  there  be  m'arble  there, 

With  doves,  or  lambs,  or  lilies  ?  "     No. 
Keep  white  yourselves.     Why  should  you  care 

If  they  are  as  white  as  snow, 

When  the  lilies  can  not  blow, 
And  the  doves  can  never  moan, 
Nor  the  lambs  bleat — in  the  stone  ? 

You  want  some  flowers  ?     Oh  ! 

We  shall  not  find  them  on  the  way. 
no 


A    WALK    TO    MY    OWN    GRATE. 

Only  a  few  brier-roses  grow, 

Here  and  there,  in  the  sun,  I  say. 
It  is  dusty  and  dry  all  day, 
But  at  evening  there  is  shade, 
And you  will  not  be  afraid  ? 

Ah,  the  flowers  f     Surely,  yes. 

At  the  end  there  will  be  a  few. 
"  Violets  ?     Violets  ?  "     So  I  guess, 

And  a  little  grass  and  dew ; 

And  some  birds — you  want  them  blue? 
And  a  spring,  too,  as  I  think, 
Where  we  will  rest  and  drink. 


Now  kiss  me  and  be  good, 

For  you  can  go  back  home  and  play. 
This  is  my  grave  here  in  the  wood, 

AVhere  I,  for  a  while,  must  stay. 

Wait — will  you  always  pray, 
Though  you  are  sleepy,  at  night  ? 
There  !  do  not  forget  me — quite. 

Keep  the  baby  sweetly  drest, 

And  give  him  milk  and  give  him  toys ; 


A   WALK   TO    MY   OWN    GRAVE. 

Rock  him,  as  I  did,  to  his  rest, 
And  never  make  any  noise, 
Brown-eyed  girl  and  blue-eyed  boys, 

Until  he  wakes.     Good-by, 

And do  not  stop  to  cry ! 


PARIS. 

[JANUARY,  1871.] 

SPEAK  !     Dying,  that  never  can  be  dead ! 

Speak!     O  wounded,  and  wan,  and  wasted! 
"Blood  is  better  than  wine,"  she  said — 

"Famine  the  sweetest  food  I  have  tasted. 

"Pallor  is  brighter  than  bloom,  and  scars 
Than  my  old  jewels  have  made  me  fairer. 

When  the  Vapor  put  out  my  lamps,  the  stars 
Gave  me  a  surer  light  and  a  rarer. 

' '  My  flowers  were  false,  my  glory  was  shame, 

My  Life  was  Death,  in  my  years  of  pleasure. 
Divine  from  my  sorrow  my  Beauty  came — 

Safe  in  my  ashes  shall  shine  my  treasure." 
113 


AN   AFTER-POEM. 

You  will  read,  or  you.  will  not  read, 

That  the  lilies  are  whitest  after  they  wither ; 

That  the  fairest  buds  stay  shut  in  the  seed, 

Though  the  bee  in  the  dew  say  "Come  you  up 
hither." 

You  have  seen,  if  you  were  not  blind, 

That  the  moon  can  be  crowded  into  a  crescent, 

And  promise  us  light    that  we  never  can  find 

When    the  midnights   are   wide   and   yellow   and 
pleasant. 

You  will  know,  or  you  will  not  know, 

That  the  seas  to  the  sun  can  fling  their  foam  only, 
And  keep  all  their  terrible  waters  below 

With  the  jewels  and  dead  men  quiet  and  lonely. 

114 


WITH  DISTANT  ECHOES. 


Of  far-off,  old,  unhappy 

laities  long  ago." 

—  WORDS  WOR  TH. 


HEARING  THE  BATTLE.— JULY  21,  1861, 

ONE  day  in  the  dreamy  summer, 

On  the  Sabbath  hills,  from  afar 
We  heard  the  solemn  echoes 

Of  the  first  fierce  words  of  war. 

Ah,  tell  me,  thou  veiled  Watcher 
Of  the  storm  and  the  calm  to  come, 

How  long  by  the  sun  or  shadow 
Till  these  noises  again  are  dumb. 

And  soon  in  a  hush  and  glimmer 

We  thought  of  the  dark,  strange  fight, 

Whose  close  in  a  ghastly  quiet 
Lay  dim  in  the  beautiful  night. 

Then  we  talk'd  of  coldness  and  pallor, 
And  of  things  with  blinded  eyes 

That  stared  at  the  golden  stillness 
Of  the  moon  in  those  lighted  skies  ; 

117 


HEARING     THE    BATTLE. 

And  of  souls,  at  morning  wrestling 
In  the  dust  with  passion  and  moan, 

So  far  away  at  evening 

In  the  silence  of  worlds  unknown. 

But  a  delicate  wind  beside  us 
Was  rustling  the  dusky  hours, 

As  it  gather'd  the  dewy  odors 
Of  the  snowy  jessamine-flowers. 

And  I  gave  you  a  spray  of  the  blossoms, 
And  said :  "I  shall  never  know 

How  the  hearts  in  the  land  are  breaking, 
My  dearest,  unless  you  go." 

118 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  OUT-OF-DOORS. 

"  THE  Saint  of  Christmas  leaves  his  charmed  treasures 
Only  in  homes  where  there  is  gold  to  buy. 

What  though  small  voices  ask  for  childish  pleasures, 
Among  the  poor — he  makes  them  no  reply. 

"Ah  well,  his  great  close  furs  shut  out  their  crying; 

He  can  not  drive  in  narrow  streets,  we  know, 
Or  find  his  way  to  hearths  in  darkness  lying  "- 

A  woman  thought,  and  look'd  into  the  snow. 

When,  greener  than  all  Springs  can  make  their  greenness, 

A  giant  Tree  grew  in  the  freezing  air, 
And  from  the  far  sky's  beautiful  sereneness 

Strange  shapes  of  wondrous  calmness  gather' d  there. 

Some,  through  their  Peace,  show'd  dimly  the  scarr'd 
faces 

That  fell,  in  moldering  battle-pits,  away: 
These  brought  fair  fruits  from  ever-shining  places, 

That  children  of  dead  soldiers  might  be  gay. 

119 


THE    CHRISTMAS   TREE    OUT-OF-DOORS. 

Next,  shadows  of  worn  living  mothers  slowly — 
From  the  thick  night  below — came,  sad  to  see, 

And,  with  a  tenderness  most  sweet  and  holy, 
Hung  pretty  toys  on  the  enchanted  Tree. 

Then,  as  a  dove,  a  radiance  descended, 

And  show'd  these  children  of  the  poor,  the  dead, 

Kneeling  beneath  two  bleeding  hands  extended 
With  Christ's  dear  blessing  for  each  little  head. 


120 


A  NIGHT  AND  MORNING— 1862-3. 

O  MEMORY,  the  fountains  of  thy  Deep 
Are  broken  up,  and  all  its  fairy  shells 

Lie  glimmering  after  each  dim  billow's  sweep  : 
Once  we  but  saw  the  rose-bloom  in  their  cells, 

And  melody  was  in  the  sounds  alone ; 

We  see  the  pallor  now,  and  hear  the  moan. 

Our  images  lie  broken  in  the  sand, 

Our  blossoms  wither'd  in  the  mist,  we  say ; 

Our  summer  birds  have  left  the  snowy  land, 
Phantoms  of  tropic  songs,  and  flown  away  ; 

Our  gorgeous  buds  have  borne  no  golden  fruit ; 

Our  desert's  singing  springs  are  dry  and  mute. 

Sweet  souls  have  gone  above  the  awful  stars, 
Tired  hearts  are  heavy  in  the  dark  below ; 

The  world  is  blasted  with  the  breath  of  wars, 

And  Heaven  folds  close  the  Secret  we  would  know  ; 

Blind  shapes  of  storm  move  in  the  gloom,  and  where 

Is  the  white  wing  of  Calm  to  light  the  air  ? 

121 


A    NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

Weird  Something,  crown'd  with  bloody  asphodels, 
In  whose  dark  watch  twelve  moons  dropp'd  faded 
light, 

We  see  thy  red  path  mark'd  with  bursted  shells, 
And  ghosts  of  cannon-thunder  haunt  the  night ; 

Thy  sword  has  done  its  work,  but  work  remains : 

The  victory  waits  for  other  ghastly  plains. 

Like  Memnon,  singing  in  old  legend,  we 
Have  given  to  the  setting  light  our  sighs : 

Great  Angel  of  the  Mystery  to  be  ! 
Help  us  to  hail  its  unveil'd  glory  rise, 

And  lay  the  beauty  of  a  faith  divine, 

The  soul's  myrrh-offering,  on  its  morning  shrine. 

And  if  when  its  last  sun  is  gone  we  moan 
Slow,  tremulous  dirges  full  of  broken  sound ; 

If  whiter  images  are  overthrown  ; 

If  Time's  most  kingly  hopes  are  yet  uncrown'd  ; 

If  fiercer  signs  glare  on  the  walls  of  Fate — 

We  know  that  God  is  God,  and  Man  can  wait. 

122 


ARMY   OF   OCCUPATION. 

[AT  ARLINGTON,   VA.,    1866.] 

THE  summer  blew  its  little  drifts  of  sound — 

Tangled  with  wet  leaf-shadows  and  the  light 
Small  breath  of  scatter'd  morning  buds — around 
The  yellow  path  through  which  our  footsteps  wound. 
Below,  the  Capitol  rose,  glittering,  white, 

There  stretch'd  a  sleeping  army.     One  by  one, 
They  took  their  places  until  thousands  met ; 
No  leader's  stars  flash'd  on  before,  and  none 
Lean'd  on  his  sword  or  stagger'd  with  his  gun — 
I  wonder  if  their  feet  have  rested  yet ! 

They  saw  the  dust,  they  join'd  the  moving  mass, 
They  answer'd  the  fierce  music's  cry  for  blood, 
Then  straggled  here  and  lay  down  in  the  grass: — 
Wear  flowers  for  such,  shores  whence  their  feet  did  pass ; 
Sing  tenderly,  O  river's  haunted  flood  ! 

123 


ARMY    OF   OCCUPATION. 

They  had  been  sick,  arid  worn,  and  weary,  when 

They  stopp'd  on  this  calm  hill  beneath  the  trees : 
Yet  if,  in  some  red-clouded  dawn,  again 
The  country  should  be  calling  to  her  men, 
Shall  the  reveille  not  remember  these  ? 

Around  them  underneath  the  mid-day  skies 

The  dreadful  phantoms  of  the  living  walk, 
And  by  low  moons  and  darkness,  with  their  cries — 
The  mothers,  sisters,  wives  with  faded  eyes, 
Who  call  still  names  amid  their  broken  talk. 

And  there  is  one  who  comes  alone  and  stands 

At  his  dim  fireless  hearth — chill'd  and  oppress'd 
By  Something  he  has  summon'd  to  his  lands, 
While  the  weird  pallor  of  its  many  hands 
Points  to  his  rusted  sword  in  his  own  breast ! 


124 


APEIL   AT   WASHINGTON. 

0  WHISPERING  Phantom  and  fair 
Of  the  April  of  two  years  ago ! 

Rising  here  in  the  delicate  air, 

How  strange  are  the  pictures  you  show ! 

1  see  you,  with  Triumph  that  sounds 
In  the  cannon  and  flashes  in  light, 

Glide  over  these  blossoming  grounds 
Through  the  crowded  rejoicing  at  night. 

And  I  see  you  where  steel  is  reversed 
To  the  funeral  drum's  stifled  beats, 

To  the  thought  of  a  murder  accursed, 

To  the  bugle's  long  wail  down  the  streets  ; 

To  the  dust,  under  bells  moving  slow 
With  the  weight  of  a  people's  great  grief, 

Among  flags  falling  dark-draped  and  low, 
To  the  dead-march  behind  the  lost  chief: 

125 


APKIL   AT   WASHINGTON. 

Who  was  wrapp'd  in  your  beautiful  hours 
As  he  pass'd  to  his  glory  and  rest, 

His  coffin-lid  sweet  with  your  flowers 

And  his  last  human  look  in  your  breast  1 


1867. 

126 


TO 

SWEET  World,  if  you  will  hear  me  now: 
I  may  not  own  a  sounding  Lyre 

And  wear  my  name  upon  my  brow 
Like  some  great  jewel  full  of  fire. 

But  let  me,  singing,  sit  apart, 

In  tender  quiet  with  a  few, 
And  keep  my  fame  upon  my  heart, 

A  little  blush-rose  wet  with  dew. 
127 


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